


First Shot, The Winner

by ChaosandMayhem



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Competent Zenigata, Heist, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, World Travel, a contest between thieves, loopzoop, lupin reacts badly to the concept of getting older, never mind when it happens to HIM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosandMayhem/pseuds/ChaosandMayhem
Summary: Lupin has finally run afoul of the one enemy he can’t outwit: time. With his long years of high adventure behind him and a younger newcomer running circles around him, Lupin must decide once and for all when a good thief calls it quits…if he can at all.OR,How Arsène Lupin III came to grips with his desires, his reality, and the Inspector on his heels.
Relationships: Arsène Lupin III/Zenigata Kouichi
Comments: 77
Kudos: 154





	1. In Which Lupin Starts His Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Lupin III fandom!
> 
> I have been here roughly two months, and am still (slowly) working my way through the vast back-catalog of Lupin material. That being said, one morning I woke up with a sore back and immediately transferred the irritation to the character least likely to deal with it well.
> 
> So, here's a fic. In which Lupin confronts a sore back, gray hairs, several members of Gen Z, and his own latent affection for a grumpy detective. The title comes from a line in The Terror, because who says you can't let your passions overlap. No supernatural Arctic expeditions here, though.
> 
> As always, thanks to Belphegor for her beta work! And thanks to everyone who said I should just go ahead and start posting this bad boy.

**First Shot, The Winner**

_“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”_

_― Robert Frost_

**The Prologue, In Which Lupin Starts His Day**

The small crick in his back jolted him out of a sound sleep.

Arsène Lupin III pulled his head out of the pillow he’d been comfortably ensconced against. The sheets shifted as he reached around, massaged his aching lower back. The ache was dull but persistent, as thought someone had been pressing on it too hard. Lupin frowned, shifted, and grimaced when his back twinged in protest to the action.

Odd. He could usually blame little aches and pains as the necessary consequence of his latest heist. But he hadn’t put himself through anything so rigorous for at least a week…

A huge snore escaped the woman sleeping next to him.

Okay. So he’d done some rigorous activities last night. But not nearly enough to be the source of pain.

Quietly, as not to wake her, Lupin untangled himself from the sheets and slipped out of the hotel bed. Thick magenta curtains covered the windows, casting the hotel room in a gray gloom. The clock on the nightstand clicked towards eight AM.

Lupin stifled a yawn and rolled to the balls of his feet. The action sent a small shiver of pain down his back, but it wasn’t dire—if anything, the stretching helped to lessen the pain. He did a few more stretches, mindful of the sleeping woman behind him.

What had her name been? Bethany—no, Bettina. Nice girl, on holiday from Florence. She’d caught his eye at the card table last night, and one thing had inevitably spun into another.

She might want breakfast, he supposed, and the idea wasn’t entirely without merit. Some waffles with fruit, a nice cup of coffee on the terrace…

And it was too quiet.

Lupin cocked his head to the side.

Eight in the morning, folks should have been up and moving by now. He should have heard the sound of children running down the hall, the sleepy scoldings of parents in their wake. He should have heard the trundle of carts pushed by cleaning staff, gentle raps on hotel doors and muffled rings of wake-up calls. Even for a lazy Saturday morning, this place was too damn quiet.

Lupin hummed to himself as he dressed quickly in last night’s clothes. His clever fingers did up his tie as he peeked through those heavy magenta curtains. The window behind the curtain was heavy and thick, not the type easily shattered.

Beyond the thick window, the Portofino bay glittered in the early morning light. In the distance he could see the gleaming golden beaches, already populated by tourists and beachgoers. It would have been a wonderful way to spend the day, eating gelato and watching little fish swim.

Ah, well. The swarm of cop cars surrounding the hotel interested Lupin far more than any fish.

He stepped back away from the window and tiptoed over to the hotel door. He pressed an ear to the heavy wood, listening intently. Yes, there it was—the unmistakable creak of heavy boots on patterned rug. Hm. Going right through the door was out of the question, then. It usually was, but, hey, never hurt to check. Lupin pulled back, one finger pressed to his chin.

He turned on his heel and moved back to the bed. He sank down and pressed a hand to Bettina’s tiny waist. “Hey,” he said pleasantly, “time to wake up.”

She stirred, tossing blonde hair aside to smile up at him. Her eyes were still bleary with sleep. “Mornin’,” she mumbled.

“So…just as a heads-up, things are about to get kinda crazy around here,” Lupin said. His free hand fished around his pocket, closing over several small beads. “You might wanna cover your ears. And your eyes. Not gonna be a pretty sight, this.”

The sleep vanished instantly from her eyes. She sat up sharply. “Lupin—what are you—?!”

She didn’t get a chance to finish.

An almighty CRACK shattered the early morning peace. The door burst open, splintered into pieces by a policeman’s heavy boot. Lupin did a quick headcount as they swarmed into the bedroom, completely oblivious to the shrieking Bettina. Five officers, Italian style uniform…local boys, then, not his preferred flavor of pursuant.

He gave the five officers one good look—not every day you got to meet the famous Lupin the Third, after all—before smashing his smoke pellets against the rug.

Instantly the cozy hotel bedroom vanished in a haze. Bettina’s shrieking reached a new octave, and the shouts and coughs of the officers made for an ugly chorus. Lupin slipped easily through the chaos, pausing only to toss a “Sorry!” over his shoulder as he tumbled through the door and into the hall.

In the hall he did a quick spin. L-junction behind him led to the stairs, but those were most likely blocked. The elevators were absolutely out of the question. That left only…

“LUPIN!”

Lupin bounced on the spot, wheeling around to beam at the broad-shouldered man at the other end of the hall. His heart skipped a beat. _Now_ things were in proper form! “Mornin’, Pops! It’s a little early for all this, don’t you think?”

Inspector Koichi Zenigata just scowled. One hand drifted for the handcuffs at his waistline. “Justice never sleeps, and neither does crime.”

“Sure.” Lupin shrugged. “But I haven’t even had coffee yet.” He did a quick backwards jig, making for the junction. He had just enough time to flash Zenigata a grin before darting away. Behind him, Zenigata roared, a wordless shout that had every able-bodied cop in the vicinity swarming after him.

Really, Pops just made it too damn easy sometimes.

An abandoned laundry cart rested against one wall. Lupin leaped into it, burrowing down and throwing a mercifully-clean sheet over his head. Not a half-second later, the small rumble of a dozen or so cops seemed to shake the whole corridor. Lupin held his breath as they ran by, making for the stairwell. He heard the stairwell door slam open, the thunder of boots on cement—and then the door slamming shut once more. Everything was still, quiet.

“Nice try, Lupin.”

Lupin yanked the bedsheet aside, only to find Zenigata leaning over the laundry cart, arms folded on the edge. He looked amused—or as close to amused as Zenigata could get. He even tipped his fedora back a little, all the better to stare down at the cornered thief. “You think I’d fall for that?”

“Nah.” Lupin shrugged. Despite his predicament he, too, was grinning. There was never a chance of any real danger when he and Zenigata played this game of cat-and-mouse. With one hand he fished around inside the cart, curled his fingers around something soft. “Just wanted to get the goons outta the way. Don’t want anyone interrupting this dance of ours.”

Zenigata snorted, but he couldn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “You’re outta steps.”

“Not quite!”

With cat-like grace he flung himself forward, so hard he knocked his head against Zenigata’s. Zenigata bellowed—and was abruptly silenced as Lupin shoved a single gray sock into his mouth. He shoved the stunned Zenigata backwards, giving himself enough room to leap from the cart. He landed on both feet…and swayed only a little, his own head aching from the force of the blow. Bright white dots flickered across his vision, and not for the first time in his life did Lupin curse the Inspector’s thick skull.

No time to waste, though—he darted to the stairwell, flinging himself through the door and up the steps. His long legs carried him two at a time, past successive landings to the rooftop. He shoulder-checked the rooftop door, startling when it gave way easily against him. The rooftop door had been unlocked, which meant—

He skittered onto the uneven pavement of the hotel roof, arms pinwheeling to bring himself to a stop.

The cops he’d evaded early stood in a ring around the roof. Each had his weapon in hand, aimed dead at Lupin’s chest.

“Got you now, Lupin.”

Lupin spun to face Zenigata. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as the Inspector came up the stairs behind him. Despite Lupin’s head start, the Inspector wasn’t even winded. That was Pops for you, Lupin thought fondly. Nothing slowed him down.

He slid a foot back and bent his knee slightly. “Overconfidence doesn’t suit you, old man.” He paid no mind to the armed cops at his back; Zenigata was the only one who mattered.

“Your tricks are getting old.” Zenigata chided.

 _That_ irked him. This was the second time in only a few minutes Zenigata had insinuated that he was getting predictable. Lupin considered himself many things: charming, clever, handsome, ever exciting. But not predictable. His nostrils flared. “Don’t be _rude_ , Pops!”

Zenigata didn’t answer. He took another step forward, advancing on Lupin—too late, for Lupin had sprung forward, sprinting at full-speed towards Zenigata. Bullets peppered his steps, Zenigata roared at his careless subordinates, and Lupin dashed past him, vaulting over the low roof wall and into open air.

He had about three seconds to appreciate the sensation of freefall, another three seconds for his heart and stomach to switch places, and then gray pavement came rushing towards him—

Only for yellow to burst through the gray, and the sudden screech of tires to drown out the roar of the wind in his ears. Lupin fell through the open roof and into the back seat of a familiar battered Fiat. He landed flat on his back, arms and legs akimbo.

“Ooph,” he said, for lack of anything better to say.

In the front seat Jigen twisted around. He tipped his fedora back and grinned down at the supine Lupin. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’,” Lupin said. He glanced around, admiring the upside down view of the world. “Amazing timing, as always. How’d you know where to find me?”

“Easy,” Jigen replied. “I just followed the sound of inevitable trouble.”

He threw the Fiat into drive. The little car shot forward through the empty Portofino streets at full speed, and the motion sent Lupin tumbling to the floor. He twisted, swinging his long arms and legs around in an attempt to free himself. It took a good minute, especially since his heart and stomach were still stumbling back to their original spots, more than a little punch-drunk from the freefall.

Police sirens blared behind them by the time Lupin clambered into the passenger side seat. Jigen glanced into the rearview mirror with a snort. “Helluva way to start the weekend.”

“Yeah, well—” Lupin yawned “—it keeps things interesting.”

He made to slump down, and instantly regretted it. A dull ache bloom across his lower back, the same twinge that had woken him up this morning. He grimaced and sat up again.

Jigen noted the action with a frown. “You okay?”

“Never better!” Lupin chirped.

But it didn’t exactly feel like the truth.


	2. In Which Gray Hairs Are Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week after his dashing escape from Portofino, Lupin is brooding, Jigen is having none of it, and Goemon holds the party brain cell.

**Chapter One, In Which Gray Hairs Are Split**

Springtime in Southern France was in full swing: lush greenery spilled over the rolling hills, with the colorful flowers adding splashes of vibrancy to the landscape. Overhead the sky was a robin’s egg blue; thick, fluffy clouds sailed overhead. Nestled in the picturesque scene was a modest countryside chateau, located within driving distance of several quaint towns and a large vineyard. It was the perfect resort for a weekend getaway, with a balcony view offering a gorgeous vantage point of the countryside in bloom.

Lupin didn’t see any of it.

He had one hand on his chin and other wrapped around a cup of coffee. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Lupin didn’t even grimace as he took a sip. He had crept out onto the balcony an hour ago with his coffee and his troubled thoughts, and hadn’t moved since. 

The glass door slid open. Jigen popped his head through, a scowl plastered to his face. “You stare at the sun all day like that, you’re gonna go blind.”

His tone, moreso than his words, stirred Lupin out of his reverie. He straightened and stretched. “Shush. I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“Babes.”

A small, disgusted noise left Jigen. He slammed the door shut again. Through the thick glass Lupin could hear him complaining loudly to Goemon about Lupin and his damn _thinking_. Lupin allowed himself a small smile—he wasn’t the only one with a predictable sort of mindset. And truth be told, he’d rather have Jigen rolling his eyes than admit to what was troubling him.

It had been a week since their fabulous retreat from Portofino. Of those seven subsequent days, Lupin had awoken with an aching back for five. A good thief knew numbers. And the average here wasn’t exactly in his favor.

He’d tried everything: painkillers, a hot water bottle, yoga before bed and in the morning. It was only this morning, when his eyes snapped open to his complaining back yet _again_ , that the true cause finally occurred to him.

He’d fallen asleep nearly sideways on the bed, one pillow pushed up against the wall to support his back. There hadn’t been any particular reason for it—he’d just passed out like that with his phone on his chest. But falling asleep like that meant waking up like that, and the resultant pain made it clear:

He was sleeping wrong.

The indignity of it all had Lupin pursing his lips. For years he’d been sleeping in all sorts of weird positions; it was one of the natural consequences of being a gentleman thief. Sometimes you fell asleep curled up in the back of a car, or on the hard slab of a prison bed, or inside some egomaniac’s stone dungeon. Sure, it was never comfortable. But he was also never felt a persistent pain in his lower back like this before either.

What had changed? Nothing drastic, surely. Not unless someone had replaced all the decent mattresses in Europe with a plot straight out of the Princess and the Pea. He toyed with the notion for a second—and then discarded it. Too ridiculous even for the crowd he often ran with. So it had to be something with him, then. He was the only constant variable.

Funny. He’d always associated bad backs with elderly folks—

Lupin slammed his coffee mug down so hard the whole table rattled.

No, no, no. That was out of the question entirely. He wasn’t _old_. He was in his _thirties_! Lower back pain was for geriatrics. He was still in the prime of his life. No, there had to be some other explanation, one that hadn’t occurred to him yet. Aging was for other people.

When he finally reentered the shared bedroom of the chateau, it was to find Goemon and Jigen already elbow-deep in their respective breakfasts. The latter took a quick, agitated bite of eggs, sizing Lupin up from behind his hat. “You done fantasizing?”

“Never.” Lupin said. In an effort to save face he sank down across from them on a settee. “But the fantasy in mind has changed.”

Goemon looked up from his morning tea. “Have you chosen a new target for us, then?”

“Maybe.” He hadn’t. “Something good.” No idea. “Ripe for the taking.” Well—okay, that part was true. The whole damn countryside and every priceless artifact therein could feasibly belong to them.

Jigen and Goemon stared at him expectantly. When it was clear no further information was forthcoming, Jigen cleared his throat. “So? You gonna tell us, or are we gonna have to read your damn mind?”

“I will tell you.” Lupin sniffed. “After I freshen up a bit.” He vanished into the adjacent bathroom, in what was definitely not a bid for time.

His cohorts watched the door click shut. Only when it had did Jigen leaned towards Goemon. “Is he actin’ weird, or is it just me?”

“Lupin has many strange habits.” Goemon took a placid sip of tea. “I thought you’d be well-acquainted with the worst of them by now.”

“Well, he’s acting _weirder_!” Jigen corrected. “Walkin’ around with his head in the clouds. Starin’ off into nothing like he’s trying to burn a hole through one of those hills.” He pointed out the window to indicate just which hills he meant. “You know full well he wasn’t thinking about dames. And he sure as hell doesn’t have a plan in mind.”

“Perhaps he’s unwell.”

“Nah.” Jigen shook his head. “If he was sick we’d know—”

A shriek from the bathroom cut him short.

Instantly Jigen and Goemon were on their feet, weapons in hand. Goemon’s sword flashed in the sunlight, but before he could slice the bathroom door to pieces a half-dressed Lupin slammed it open once more. He slumped against the doorframe, breathing hard and fast. All the color had drained from his face.

“Lupin?” Goemon frowned.

“S’matter?” Jigen lowered his gun, but didn’t holster it. “Bathroom haunted?”

Lupin stammered something, so fast neither man caught it. A heavy, shuddering gasp escaped him. Jigen took an uncertain step forward. “Lupin…?”

“GRAY!”

Jigen jumped backwards, but it was too little too late. Lupin lurched forward and grabbed Jigen by the lapel. “LOOK!” He wailed. “Look!” He all but pushed his head against Jigen’s nose.

Jigen looked. And saw nothing. “Look at…what?”

“My HAIR!” With two hands now, he shook Jigen back and forth. “MY GORGEOUS HAIR! IT’S GRAY!” He sank forward with another dramatic wail, burying his face into Jigen’s chest.

Jigen blinked, before reaching up to give Lupin’s back an awkward pat. He shot Goemon a pleading look. Goemon glanced at the distraught Lupin before stepping forward. He leaned down, studying Lupin’s thick, dark hair. It took a full thirty seconds of methodical searching before he found it: a single gray hair, nestled among more colorful counterparts. “Ah,” he said. “Yes, it is a gray hair.” He nudged Jigen to indicate the offending follicle.

Jigen clucked his tongue before pulling Lupin back. “That’s what you’re worried about? One measly gray hair?”

“That measly gray hair is on my head!” Lupin cried. He released Jigen from his vice grip, staggering over to the bed and flopping down on his back. He swung one arm over his eyes. “Just bury me now.”

Jigen and Goemon shared a baffled look. “C’mon, Lupin, no one can even see it.”

“I can see it.” Lupin retorted from behind the safety of his arm. “I know it’s there. Growing. _Graying_.”

“And it bothers you because…?”

“Because I’m not _old_! I don’t get gray hair, and my back feels perfectly fine no matter the position I sleep in!”

“Your back…?”

“MY BACK IS FINE TOO!”

“All right, all right.” Jigen held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. He took a full step back and mouthed “your turn” to Goemon.

Goemon cocked an eyebrow, but nevertheless stepped up to try his luck. He sank down onto the bed beside Lupin, looking him over thoughtfully. “Gray hair is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a demonstration of an eventful life—”

“I’m not old!”

“No,” Goemon agreed. “You are not old. But gray hair can also be a symbol of stress upon the body. And you do a lead a stressful life, Lupin. Constantly on the move, constantly planning your next step. This—”

Without warning, he plucked the gray hair from Lupin’s head. He ignored the resultant yelp of pain and held it up for Lupin to see.

“—is merely a natural manifestation of stress.”

Lupin glared at him, rubbing the now-tender part of his head. Nevertheless, something about Goemon’s matter-of-fact explanation stopped his racing mind dead in his tracks. He took the hair from Goemon and held it up to the light.

“Oh,” he said, hateful. “It’s Pops’ fault.”

Goemon could think of a choice few people who bore more responsibility for Lupin’s lifestyle than the Inspector, but correcting Lupin wasn’t worth the inevitable headache. He went back to his cooling tea.

Lupin continued to stare at the gray hair pinched between his fingers. Stress. He could handle stress. He’d just have to take it easy for a few weeks, keep himself out of Zenigata’s own thinning hairline, and try not to attract the attention of anyone less savory. Okay, he could do that…how hard could it be, keeping to himself for the sake of his luxurious dark hair…Lupin frowned as he twisted the gray hair back and forth between his fingers.

Then he gasped, clasping both hands to his face. “Stress causes wrinkles!”

“Uh, yeah?” Jigen sighed as he set his breakfast aside again. “And?”

Lupin flung himself from the bed and all but into Jigen’s lap. “Do I have wrinkles?!”

“LUPIN! GET OFF—!”

Jigen tried to shove Lupin aside, but the thief was made of glue and desperation, and he clung to Jigen like particularly stubborn hangnail. Lupin smooshed Jigen’s face in both his hands. “Do I have wrinkles?!”

“No!” Jigen did the only thing he could do: stoop to Lupin’s level. He smashed his hands against Lupin’s cheeks, squeezing them together. “You do not have wrinkles! But you are gonna get a bloody nose if you don’t get off me!” With one firm shove he sent Lupin sprawling to the floor. “What’s _with_ you?”

Lupin hesitated. It was a split-second hesitation, there and gone again in the blink of an eye. Any other onlooker would have missed it. But unfortunately for Lupin, he was stuck in a room with the two men who knew him best, and that fraction of a pause spoke volumes to both.

Jigen folded his arms over his chest. “Y’know, Lupin, there isn’t anything wrong with the occasional gray hair or wrinkle. Hell, that’s what hair dye is for.”

“As well as skincare routines,” Goemon offered.

Lupin, still on the floor, rolled over to properly face Goemon. He planted his chin in his hands. “Are you telling me I should moisturize?” he demanded.

Goemon just shrugged, leaving it to Jigen to answer: “Couldn’t hurt. If you’re that worried about signs of age…or stress.” The latter was added hurriedly when Lupin turned to glare at him.

Something about their complete nonchalance in the face of impending mortality irked Lupin. He sat up and folded his legs criss-cross. “And you aren’t worried?”

“No.” They answered in unison. Jigen waved a hand around when Lupin scowled: “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, Lupin, we’ve all got signs of wear and tear from the years. Plenty of gray hair, too.”

Lupin’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Oh yeah? Take off your hat.”

“…no.”

Lupin scrambled up and launched himself at Jigen—only to be met halfway by the man himself, who tackled Lupin back to the carpeted floor.

Goemon watched the wrestling match with the same mild interest someone might watch water boil. He sipped at his tea, completely at ease as Jigen and Lupin rolled around on the floor with fists flying. At some point Jigen (still hatted) pinned Lupin in a headlock. The gunman was swearing black and blue, one leg thrown over Lupin’s abdomen to keep the “slippery self-absorbed bastard!” in place. Lupin, for his part, had abandoned any gentleman’s rules and was attempting to bite Jigen.

“Quiet.”

Goemon’s command cut clean through the noise. Instantly the two men at his feet stilled. Jigen released Lupin, who sprang up with typical agility. A split-second later they heard what Goemon already had: the heavy footfall of someone approaching the door. A small, polite knock followed.

Jigen and Goemon slid up against the walls with weapons drawn. It was left to Lupin to roll his shoulders back, strut forward and open the door a crack. “Yes?”

On the other side of the door one of the hotel clerks smiled apologetically. “Sorry to interrupt your morning, sir, but a letter just arrived for you. Marked as Urgent.” He held it out.

_Oh_? Lupin opened the door a little wider and flashed the concierge a charming smile. “No apology needed! Thanks very much!” He snatched the letter and closed the door again, ignoring the slightly dazzled look on the clerk’s face. The letter in his hand was vastly more interesting.

The envelope was thick, slightly yellowed, and the hotel room number had been printed neatly. No return address, Lupin noted with interest, and no stamp either. This had been hand-delivered to the front desk. Flipping it over revealed a wax seal: a simple, almost generically designed ‘R’.

Jigen had moved from his vigilant position to Lupin’s shoulder, studying the letter as he flipped it back and forth. “Addressed to the room. Whoever it is already knows we’re here.”

“And chose to send a letter instead of a hired gun,” Lupin replied. He flipped the letter through his fingers. “Polite, if they were looking to kill us.”

“Could be something inside the letter,” Jigen said. He frowned at the seemingly innocuous envelope.

Goemon nodded in agreement. “Precautions won’t hurt.”

It took a few minutes to procure decent masks and gloves from their respective kits, and once they were situated Lupin allowed Goemon the honors. The letter opener sliced through the sealed envelope with the same precision as its deadlier counterpart, and—

A simple letter fluttered out onto the coffee table.

The three men gathered around it. Goemon gave it an experimental poke with the letter opener. When it didn’t explode, Lupin gingerly picked it up and held it to the light. No trace amounts of chemicals, he noted when he pulled his gloved fingers back to inspect them. Feeling a bit more at ease, he allowed himself to focus on the letter’s actual contents.

The handwriting was as neat and methodical as the handwriting on the envelope. A quick comparison confirmed they were a match. Lupin cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

_“Dear Mr. Lupin –_

_You do not know me, although I have admired your work for quite some time. I am contacting you in the hopes of gaining audience with you—chiefly to treat you to lunch, but also in the hopes that you would lend me your ear. I have a proposal in mind, perfect for a man of your renown. If this notice intrigues you, an associate will be available to pick you up from the chateau tomorrow at noon._

_I hope this letter finds you and your associates well._

_Fondest regards—_

_An Admirer_

_p.s.: If you have any objection to salmon, please send word to the front desk.”_

Jigen snorted as Lupin fell silent. “That has _bait_ written all over it.”

“Well, I’m a particularly big fish,” Lupin said. He read the letter over again carefully, looking for any indication of an identity. Nothing—not even so much as a whiff of perfume. And the wax sealing had been generic, the type easily purchased at a craft store for hobbyists. Whoever his admirer was, they had been very careful in concealing themselves. Still…

Still, the cadence and manner of its delivery had money written all over it in glowing neon letters. And what’s more, a good score could take his mind off his current woes.

Grinning now, Lupin looked up the expectant Jigen and Goemon.

“Anyone object to salmon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Bel for her quick beta work!
> 
> Going to try for a weekly update schedule on Friday. Longtime readers know that I am a lying liar who lies when it comes to consistent update schedules, so we'll see how long this lasts.
> 
> Kudos are wonderful, and comments are always appreciated! 
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Chaos


	3. In Which the Gauntlet is Thrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot arrives with a side of Dijon-glazed salmon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Bel for her quick beta work, and helping me with place-setting (my worst weakness *shakes fist*)
> 
> Just a quick note, this fic draws heavily from Part 4/Part 5 for inspiration. So a more modern take on Lupin. :)

**Chapter Two, In Which the Gauntlet is Thrown**

The next day dawned gray and gloomy. A light rain persisted from morning all the way through to noon, casting the countryside in a light fog. The only burst of color in the world was Lupin himself, twirling a red umbrella through his hands. Occasionally he would fiddle with a pin on his lapel. For the most part, however, he stared off into the distance, watching the fog roll across the hills without really seeing it.

The letter and its contents intrigued him more than it alarmed him. He’d been down this particular route before. Some bored millionaire—usually male—hired Lupin to swindle something out of a bank or a museum or from under some rival’s nose. Lupin would do the job, something would inevitably go awry, and the client would get screwed over in the end.

Really, he thought as he lit up a cigarette, you’d think the rich, bored millionaires of the world would have learned by now. Although it was best for him that they didn’t. He just hoped whatever target this ‘R’ had in mind was worth his while. So few in the world aimed as high as he did.

Lupin was eyeing the dog end of his cigarette by the time an elegant black car pulled up alongside the entrance of the chateau. Lupin checked his watch. 12:05. Not bad.

A young, anxious-looking driver rolled down the window. “Monsieur Lupin? Désolé de vous avoir fait attendre!”

He spoke French with an obvious accent. Lupin smiled and slackened his stance as he replied in English: “No trouble at all.” He closed his umbrella and slid into the comfortable leather interior of the car. Lupin bounced up and down a little, testing for hidden compartments and pockets. He didn’t feel any—much to his disappointment—and was frowning slightly when the divide between front and back lowered.

The driver twisted slightly to look at him. “Apologies for making you wait in the rain, sir!”

Lupin waved a hand around. “Don’t worry about it! The rain was quite refreshing—say, are those mints for the taking?” He pointed past the divide to the cupholder full of mints.

The driver grinned, grabbed two, and passed them across the divide, “Help yourself. Do you have a preference for music?”

“Whatever’s new!”

French pop songs were the soundtrack to his morning ride. Lupin leaned back, clacking a mint against his teeth and watching the washed-out countryside roll by. Every once in a while he would catch the driver watching him in the rearview mirror. When their eyes met, the driver would flush and look back to the road. Lupin allowed this to happen three times before leaning forward. “So…who, exactly, am I going to meet?”

The driver hesitated before answering: “Lord Oliver Renard, sir. He’s terribly excited to meet you.”

Lupin nodded in response. “Well, I’m excited to meet him!”

Lord Oliver Renard. The name rang only the faintest of bells. He was eighty-percent sure he’d never stolen from a Lord Renard before…but one could never be too certain. He ran a thumb over the pin on his lapel once more.

After another fifteen minutes or so, the black car turned down a narrow road. Lupin watched an impressive, classically-styled manse appear on the horizon. Tall green hedges stood sentinel, a marble fountain bubbled in the drizzle, and an alabaster staircase led up an imposing entrance. The driver cut the ignition, sprung out, and opened the door for Lupin. “We’ve arrived, sir.”

Lupin stepped out and up, umbrella hanging off his wrist. He moved quickly up the staircase, graceful despite the slickness from the rain. Harried steps behind him told him the driver was following. He slowed his pace, allowing the driver to overtake him. He smiled politely as the driver bounded past, up to the heavy oak doors.

“So you’re the doorman too?” Lupin asked, amused.

“This is Lord Renard’s vacation home,” the driver said. He was slightly out-of-breath from his sprint up the stairs. “Minimal staff. Sir.”

With that, he opened the door to the vacation manse. Lupin stepped into an expensive-looking entryway. Automatically he scanned his surroundings, trying to get a sense of this Oliver Renard.

 _Money_ was the first word in his head. But that meant little. Money came in many forms and styles. This, on a second glance, reeked of Old Money. The tiled floor checkered in alternating black and white, while the large staircase leading to upper levels was made completely from marble. High windows with heavy curtains made the space bigger, while the white crown moldings where the walls met made it older. A heavy bust of someone no doubt very important scowled at him from a corner.

Impressive, Lupin thought. But also very empty. He had his own fair share of rental properties and hideouts, and none of them felt this devoid of personality. There was nothing here that told Lupin a story, nothing here that said anything new or interesting. This was the _idea_ of wealth, rather than the tasteful execution of it.

He was still glancing around as the driver-turned-majordomo relieved him of his umbrella. Together they walked through equally-bland halls. Only once did Lupin slow his pace, having finally found something of interest.

A large oil painting hung on one wall. In it, a thin man with a narrow face stood with hands folded behind his back. His painted hairline was receding, but what Lupin could see was a dark red. He had a stern, almost severe countenance, which complemented the narrowness of his face. By his side stood a child no more than ten; with his own neatly-combed red hair and smattering of painted freckles, he could only be the severe man’s son.

The driver stopped when he did. “Lord Olivier Renard and his son, Oliver, sir,” he said in a low, respectful voice.

“Olivier and Oliver?” They sounded like a bad comedy routine. “Why anglicized Junior?”

“The son chose to.” The driver’s tone betrayed a stiffness that had nothing to do with his position. “Sir.”

Lupin glanced at the driver. He wore a driver’s cap, obscuring his hair from view, but there was a small smattering of freckles across his nose. “Will I have an audience with Senior or Junior today?”

“Junior,” the driver said, tone apologetic. “I’m afraid the elder Lord Renard passed away some time ago.”

They continued on their way. After some time, voices echoed down towards them, periodically punctuated by the tell-tale _tink!_ of metal striking metal. Lupin and the driver turned together into a far-more comfortable, modern-looking sitting room. Mounted on the opposite wall was a large television. Onscreen, two figures in all-white fenced, their movements fluid and practiced. Lupin arched his eyebrows at the match—but the driver cursed, suddenly, and moved fully into the room. He hurried over to a large white couch, fishing through the cushions for the remote.

“My apologies,” he said as he clicked the fencing match off. “I thought I turned this off before I left. I guess I was too distracted.”

“Right.” Lupin tucked his hands into his pockets. He strolled into the room, leaned against the back of the couch. “So let’s stop pretending, Lord Renard.”

Lord Oliver Renard the Second smiled sheepishly. He removed his driver’s cap and ran a hand through his dark red hair, mussing it. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only to those who pay attention.” Lupin glanced at the darkened television. “You fence?”

“My matches,” Renard said with a nod. “I like to study them, afterwards. Especially rounds I’ve lost. I like to know where I’ve gone wrong, so I can do better next time.”

“Smart.”

Renard’s smile grew a little stronger. He indicated the hallway again, leading Lupin on. “I apologize for the deception. I just wanted to know what sort of man you were before we talked formally.”

“And?”

“And, you’re certainly not what I expected.” Renard chuckled. “My father and his associates used to sit around, smoking cigars and swapping stories about this or that you’d stolen from them. I used to hide my piggy night every night, for fear that scoundrel Lupin the Third would whisk it away. Believe me, Monsieur Lupin, you are the boogeyman of rich children everywhere.”

Lupin couldn’t help but to feel flattered. “Rest assured, I aim a bit higher than the average piggy bank.”

“So I’ve learned,” Renard said. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’ve studied your exploits quite intensively. I fear it may make me look a little like a fan. You and the men who work for you—”

“Work for me?” Lupin frowned. “We’re partners, pal.”

Oh, he was never going to hear the end of it now.

They slowed to a halt outside of a fully-furbished dining room. Renard turned to face him fully. “…ah. My mistake. I had rather assumed you were the leader…”

Lupin shrugged. “I’ve got the charm. So my face tends to be one plastered on the television screen.”

He looked Oliver Renard up and down. He was of a height with Lupin, with a lean, athletic build. He had the same narrow face as his father, but there was a youthfulness in his features, a roundness in his cheeks and a brightness in his deep brown eyes. He was twenty, twenty-one at best. “I hope I didn’t come to lunch just to autograph something.”

“I wouldn’t waste your time on something so banal. But, please, let’s discuss this further over lunch.”

Lunch was salmon, as promised, smoked and served with a Dijon glaze and sliced lemons. Lupin squeezed a generous helping of lemon juice over his salmon before digging in. By this point he was reasonably certain he wasn’t going to be poisoned, and there was no point in wasting a perfectly good dish.

“So,” he said as he sliced cleanly through the fish, “let’s get straight to business.”

“Yes,” Renard replied. He pulled the cork off a dusty bottle of wine and filled his wineglass with a generous helping. He then extended it out to Lupin. “Do you partake?”

“I’ve certainly never said no.” He waited for Renard to fill his own glass before continuing: “But I reserve the right to refuse the offer.”

“Naturally.”

“As well as walk out of here unscathed.”

“You’re a welcomed guest in my home, Monsieur. On my honor as a gentleman, no harm will come to you here.”

“Hm. Y’know, I’ve survived enough gentlemen in this business to know better than to trust their honor.”

Renard set the wine bottle aside. “You’re referring to that business in Cagliostro?”

“Among others.” Lupin gave Renard a searching look over the rim of his wineglass. Name-dropping didn’t impress him, but the swiftness with which he did was…interesting. “So you _are_ a fan.”

“As I said—” Renard inclined his head “—I’ve studied your exploits in detail. Once I grew old enough to realize you were worthy of admiration rather than derision, of course.”

“Eh. Jury’s still out on that one. So—about this proposal of yours—” He chewed and swallowed another quick bite of salmon. “I reserve the right to refuse, without you going full egomaniac on me—”

“Agreed,” Renard said.

“—I expect full compensation for my time—”

“You’ll have it, I guarantee.”

“—and whatever you want me to steal had better be worth my time, because I don’t do small jobs—”

A small chuckle escaped Renard.

Lupin stopped short. He narrowed his eyes at the young lord, who sipped his wine before clearing his throat. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but—well, that’s the brilliant thing! I don’t want you to steal anything _for_ me!”

And here he paused dramatically. Lupin, content to let him finish, took another bite of salmon.

“I want you to steal it before _I_ do!”

Lupin nearly choked.

As it was, a full minute of chewing and swallowing passed in silence. Lupin took the opportunity to study Renard again. Young, athletic, rich. Willing to engage in deception and disguises (and not half-bad at it, he had to admit). Someone who had taken great pains to contact him, after familiarizing himself with his most infamous heists. He was looking at a gentleman thief in the making.

Oh, Zenigata was going to eat him for breakfast.

Finally, he set aside his fork and steepled his fingers. “Fancy yourself a thief, do you?”

“Not one nearly on your level, goodness no. But I have…taken to honing my own skills, of late. And I’d like to pit them against yours. A friendly competition between thieves.”

The idea had appeal—that much Lupin was willing to admit. Nothing said exciting to him quite as much as a competition. Nevertheless he just arched his eyebrows. He was curious to see how Renard would convince him. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A few months.” Renard helped himself to another morsel before continuing: “I’ve…long fancied myself a student of yours. And now that my father has passed, I’ve found myself with a deluge of both money and time. Some might turn to drugs or gambling or the buying of many, many cars, but I’m more productive than that. Trying to find you was the hardest part.” His tone was amazed, almost affectionate as he met Lupin’s gaze. “You’re a slippery man, Monsieur Lupin.”

“You haven’t seen me slippery. You need a gallon of olive oil and some chocolate sauce for that.”

Renard went as pink as the salmon on his plate. “I see. In any case, it was through happenstance alone that I finally found you. The chateau you checked into belongs to me. You can hide quite a lot from security cameras, Monsieur—but sneaking onto the roof for a private smoke is not one of them. When I realized who it was renting out my room…”

“I see.” He made a mental note to speak with Jigen about their late-night smokes. For now he leaned backed, draped an elbow over the back of his chair. “So…this competition. Obviously, if you win you have bragging rights about pulling one over on the great Lupin. Why would I risk that? What’s in it for me?”

“Aside from bragging rights? You mentioned monetary competition earlier. Making the effort worth your while. How does fifty-thousand pounds strike you?”

“As chump change,” Lupin retorted. He pushed his chair back and made to stand. “Lord Renard, I’m afraid—”

“I wasn’t clear. I meant fifty-thousand _each_.”

Lupin paused. Fifty-thousand pounds for each man came to the tune of one million five-hundred thousand pounds. More if he could rope Fujiko into this venture. Now _that_ looked a little more like his price tag. But he had never known rich men to be so easily parted with their money, and the eagerness with which Lord Renard spoke lent him doubts. “You seem very eager to let me make a fool of myself, Lord Renard.”

The words had hardly left his mouth before Renard was shaking his head. “Not so. Only that if I were to go all-in, I want to go all-in against the very best. Why settle for anything— _anyone_ —less?”

Unbidden, Zenigata’s cutting remarks about his tricks getting old rang through his head. The memory of his aching back and the single gray hair followed. He _was_ the best. And what better way to prove he was still in his prime than against someone a decade younger? Lupin couldn’t ignore the familiar stir of excitement, the tingle spreading from head-to-toe that told him this could be _fun_.

“What would the rules of this competition be?” he asked slowly.

“It’s very simple. Three locations.” Renard held up a corresponding number of fingers. “Three museums. Three artifacts. Whoever claims them—or the majority of them—first, is the winner.”

Museums. Lupin loved a good museum. And he especially loved pilfering from them. “What sort of artifacts did you have in mind?”

“A good variety. I’m afraid I won’t divulge you yet—”

“Why not?”

“Because I have the distinct feeling, Monsieur Lupin, that you would steal them all ahead of time and replace them with replicas. I _do_ want this to be a fair competition, after all.”

Huh. The kid really had studied up on his tactics. Lupin wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. “Doesn’t the unfair advantage go to you, in that case?”

“Rest assured, I will not strike before the hour is right. Takes the fun out of the game, don’t you think?” Renard gestured to the whole of him, up and down. “And in any case, you have years of experience as well as your partners on your side. I believe that evens us out.”

Lupin considered a long moment, more to keep Renard on his toes than for any true deliberation. He’d made up his mind halfway through the conversation. This would be just the right exercise to get into the groove before moving onto bigger, better targets.

“All right,” he said at last. “You’re on.”

They shook on it. And when they did, Renard’s lean face broke out into a brilliant smile. A small, genuinely delighted laugh escaped him.

“Excellent! If our business is concluded, Monsieur Lupin, then I will have my driver—my actual driver—escort you back to the chateau. It’s been such a pleasure, sir, really.”

Lupin tipped a finger to his forehead. “The honor’s all mine. Thanks for the fish.”

He was halfway out into the hallway when Renard spoke again:

“There’s a listening device in your lapel, isn’t there?”

Lupin stopped on the threshold. Hands in his pockets, he spun on his heel back to Renard. “Hm?”

Renard nodded to the little pin on his lapel. “A listening device, so that you can review this meeting later for notes and second impressions. Or perhaps your cohorts are listening in, even now? In that case I apologize for the subordinates comment.” He smiled, softly, genially. “I didn’t mean to offend, truly. I just wanted to know what sort of a leader you were.”

“Not half-bad, kid.” Lupin reached up, brushed his thumb across the inconspicuous listening device pinned to his jacket lapel. “You might make this little contest interesting after all.”

At the praise, Renard rolled to the balls of his feet. For an instant he looked more puppy-like than lord-like. “First point to me, then?”

“All right, I’ll let you have it.” Lupin didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his voice. “As a token of my goodwill.”

“This bodes well for me, I hope you know.”

“Oh? How do you figure that?”

“The first shot’s the winner,” Lord Oliver Renard said. A corner of his mouth twitched further upwards, nudging his contented smile into a more satisfied smirk. “Or so I’ve been told.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated :3c
> 
> See you next week!
> 
> Chaos


	4. In Which Lupin Drinks the Whisky Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goemon and Jigen need convincing about this latest venture. Fortunately, whisky is there to help. Lupin, meanwhile, remains deep in denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait on this chapter! Complications arose, ensued, and were overcome. )

**Chapter Three, In Which Lupin Drinks the Whisky Drink**

Jigen downed his shot of whisky and set the glass in the dirt. It caught in the firelight, casting orange and yellow light over the gunman’s craggy face.

“So,” he said in a tone thoroughly unimpressed, “you agreed to a pissing contest just to show this little prick your dick is bigger?”

Sunlight had broken through the gray fog around three, and the rest of the day had been bathed in delicious warmth. The warmth lingered even as evening’s long shadows set in. The trio of Lupin, Jigen, and Goemon huddled around a small campfire, deep within a set of woods. Knowing Renard owned the rented chateau had been incentive enough to leave quickly. The rest of the day had been spent putting miles between them. Renard was now a rival, and thus subject to all suspicions when it came to personal safety.

To Jigen’s accusation Lupin just pouted. He sat crisscross in front of the campfire, bottle of whisky in one hand. “Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound nearly as interesting.”

“That’s because it’s not,” Jigen replied flatly. “C’mon, Lupin, this kid isn’t worth the time or effort. We have bigger fish worth fryin’.”

“I agree with Jigen,” Goemon added. He had settled himself cross-legged on the hood of the Fiat. He didn’t bother stirring when Lupin shot him a look. “This is vain, even for you.”

“And since when did you two get cold feet so easily?” Lupin demanded. He looked back and forth between the two, incredulous. “C’mon! We’ve survived assassins— _multiple_ assassins—mad scientists, shadowy corporations, all kinds of supernatural nonsense, every international agency with a snappy abbreviation—and it’s this rookie you two are turning your nose up at?!”

“Yes,” they answered in unison.

“…y’know, gotta say, not a big fan of this hivemind thing you two have going on.”

“He’s a rookie who had your number from the start.” Jigen leaned over and swiped the whisky bottle out of Lupin’s hand. Jigen took a full swig straight from the bottle, leaving Goemon to continue:

“It’s his overconfidence that concerns me. Overconfidence and inexperience are deadlier than any weapon. Even if he does not get himself killed in his search for glory, he could easily get someone else hurt.”

Lupin couldn’t believe his own ears. He sprang up, pacing around the fire now in a rare display of agitation. “So we’ll bring him down a few notches! Losing to us ought to humble him quickly enough. And if he knows my tricks, he can’t be that inexperienced.” He paused, suddenly, in consideration.

Jigen set the whisky bottle aside, giving Lupin a critical look. “What?”

“I wonder if we can find out what thefts he’s already committed. There has to be police reports on local crime, right?”

Together Jigen and Lupin pulled out their phones, thumbs tapping as they searched up local police reports. This left Goemon free to look up, admiring the view of the half-moon through the darkened trees. “Lord Renard said he was raised on stories of you.”

Lupin’s eyes remained locked on his phone, but he made a noncommittal noise to show he was listening.

“Does that disconcert you at all?”

It was Jigen who paused, but the quick glance Lupin shot to Goemon indicated that something had struck a chord. “How do you mean?”

“Just this morning you were lamenting the state of your hair. Then you meet someone, a thief in his own right, who claims he had stories of you at his father’s knee. Does it not disconcert you?”

Lupin allowed himself a scowl. “I’m not drunk enough for an existential crisis, Goemon.”

“No,” Goemon mused. “I suppose not.”

Two beats passed in silence.

“BUT FOR THE RECORD—!” Lupin exploded. “No, it doesn’t bother me! Just because he’s _young_! I’ve still got plenty to give. He’s younger than me, not young compared to me! There’s a _difference_. And I don’t appreciate the insinuations! And furthermore, even if the kid did grow up on stories about me, what does it matter?! They’re _stories_. They’re _supposed_ to be told. Sure, some are _less new_ than others, but that’s only because I’m damn good at making new stories! It doesn’t matter! I don’t care! NOW GIVE ME THAT DAMN BOTTLE!”

He snatched the whisky back from Jigen, flung himself back down on the ground, and began to chug.

Jigen leaned towards Goemon. “I don’t think you wanna open these floodgates just yet, pal,” he murmured.

“Mm.” Was all Goemon had to say on the matter.

Lupin reemerged from the depths of the bottle with a definitive ‘pop!’. He tossed the emptied bottle side and scowled. “I heard that.” He scooted closer to the fire, planted his chin in his hands, and resolved himself to ignoring his so-called _friends_ for the rest of the evening.

A heavy, accepting sort of sigh escaped Jigen. He stood, dusted himself off, and moved to sink down beside Lupin. Lupin gave him a dirty look—one he fired in the opposite direction as Goemon settled down on his other side. Lupin leaned forward, stared deep into the flickering orange flames. Heat washed over him in waves, leaving his face and hands with the feeling of burning. The heat and the alcohol made his head spin.

“S’stupid,” he muttered.

Goemon hesitated, only a moment, before pressing a hand on Lupin’s shoulder. “I will see this endeavor through alongside you.”

Lupin ran a hand under his nose. His eyes remained fixed on the fire. “Even though it’s a vain dick-measuring contest?”

“Yes.” Goemon let his hand fall away from Lupin’s shoulder. “This matters to you. And therefore it matters to us. Jigen?”

Jigen snorted as he pulled a battered cigarette carton from his pocket. “Eh. It beats bein’ bored.” He extended his cigarettes forth as a peace offering.

Lupin accepted it with an air of forbearing grace. He slipped his own hand into his pocket in search of his lighter. “Well. I suppose you two aren’t _complete_ jerks.”

“I resent the implication,” Jigen retorted. He took the lighter from Lupin, lit up, and passed it back.

For a few minutes the trio sat in relative silence; Lupin and Jigen smoked, Goemon stirred the crackling logs with a stick. Insects chirruped in the dark forest around them, their chorus occasionally interrupted by the low hoot of an owl. It felt as though the whole world had taken a deep breath and then exhaled.

“So,” Lupin said once he felt a little more like himself, “where were we?”

“Renard’s record.” Jigen replied. “His supposed record, anyway.”

Goemon set the slightly-charred stick on the ground. “Do you doubt him, Jigen?”

“Not completely. Jus’ wondering if he’s puffin’ himself up for the sake of looking impressive. Not like we know anyone who’d do that, eh?” He nudged Lupin affectionately, forcing Lupin to swat him away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The gentleman thief sniffed.

A few minutes of quiet Internet searching yielded the partial life history of one Lord Oliver Renard the Second. His father’s family had an impressive political background, but the source of his title had come from Oliver Renard the First’s marriage to an Englishwoman of minor nobility, one Sophie Dover. Oliver Renard the Second was the only issue from their marriage, and they filed for separation when their boy was eight. His mother had passed shortly after Renard turned eighteen, leaving him the benefactor of her wealth.

Jigen cycled through old gossip columns with mild interest. “Looks like the kid spent his life being ferried back and forth between France and England.”

“Poor kid.” Lupin leaned over, planted his chin on Jigen’s shoulder to read along with him. “Wonder which football teams he roots for?”

“Both would be simplest.” Goemon leaned over as well, squinting against the brightness of Jigen’s phone screen. “This light will strain your eyes.”

“Hush. Lupin’s the old one here, not me—OOF!”

Lupin dislodged his elbow from Jigen’s ribs. “Renard did well for himself in any case,” he said, taking the phone from the muttering Jigen. “Graduated last year from Aix-Marseille University with a degree in economics. Full honors. And that was after a leave of absence following his father’s death.”

“Someone works hard.” Jigen made to grab his phone, but Lupin held it just out of reach.

“Or is very ambitious,” Goemon noted. He swiped the phone from Lupin and handed it back to Jigen, ignoring Lupin’s pout as he did so.

“Or perhaps he just wasn’t close to dear old dad,” Lupin said. Though that didn’t ring exactly right. The painting of father and son had remained where visitors could see it, and Renard’s tone when he spoke of his father had been respectful, if not warm. They might not have been _close_ , but it seemed to him that Renard still held a deep regard his father. “How did he die, anyway?”

Jigen searched through a handful of news articles and obituaries. “Accident,” he said at last. “Took a nasty fall down a flight of stairs. Poor bastard broke his neck on impact. He was home alone when it happened. Majordomo came in the next morning and found him.”

His companions grimaced.

“Easy enough for an assassin to disguise a shove as a terrible fall,” Goemon said after a moment. “Perhaps Renard the Second is a murderer in addition to being a thief.”

“Why, though? He was dad’s only heir, he would have inherited anyway.”

“Perhaps he was impatient?”

“No.” Lupin shook his head. “He spent months planning a meeting with me, I don’t think he’d shove dad down a flight of stairs just for the chance to inherit a decade early. Was he in town when dad died?”

“Nah. He’s fully alibied. Attending a fencing tournament at the time. Jeez, Lupin!” Jigen jumped a little in place. The article he had pulled up featured a colored photo of Renard the Second. He wore fencing gear, but the big grin plastered to his face was cheekier than appropriate for a professional photo. “You’re pickin’ a fight with a baby!”

“That baby is picking a fight with _me_ ,” Lupin corrected with a scowl. “So I don’t want to hear him crying when I steal his candy.” He grabbed for Jigen’s phone again, missed, and finally pulled his own phone from his pocket. A few minutes of searching answered his next set of questions. “Looks like there’s been a rash of thefts across Southern France in the past few months. A few jewelry stores in Nice, some private art collection in Avignon, safes and family heirlooms alike…”

“Do you think Renard is responsible?”

Low-scale jobs, in Lupin’s expert opinion, but not without their own amount of necessary effort. They could have easily been separate incidents. They very easily could have been the work of an amateur, just beginning their career. Or they could have been the jobs of a thief stretching his muscles, readying himself for a more impressive heist.

Lupin tucked his phone away once more. “If he _is_ responsible, that explains why he’s thinks he’s ready to go after bigger scores.”

“What d’you think it’ll be?” Jigen asked.

“Dunno.” He had a few fair ideas, but ideas only got you so far. The ball, for now, was in Renard’s court. “Something impressive, no doubt.”

“Well, we won’t know until we know.”

With that philosophical statement said, Jigen crushed his last cigarette of the day into the dirt. He stood, stretched, and waved a hand around in good night. Lupin and Goemon watched him open the back of the Fiat, slide inside, and tuck his hat over his face.

A few minutes passed in a comfortable silence. The fire had begun to burn low, the flames a deeper red and orange, sending small, bright embers into the night air. A faint wind stirred the swirling embers, and they danced gently among the treetops. There was a chill in the springtime air, a chill that had Lupin pulling his jacket closer to his chest.

Goemon gave him a sidelong look. And then he sighed. “I apologize for my early statement. I didn’t mean to cause you discomfort.”

The samurai’s face was as impassive as ever, but Lupin caught the slight downturn of his mouth. He grinned, leaned over, and clapped Goemon on the back. “No worries, buddy! I need you two to keep me on my toes, y’know? The kid doesn’t bother me, really.” He lifted and dropped his shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe I can take him on as an apprentice. It’d be nice to have someone around who listens the first time.”

He chuckled to himself as he got to his feet. “Jigen had the right idea. I’m turning in.”

“Lupin.”

Goemon’s voice was soft. He continued to stare into the fire, even as he spoke: “There is value in being honest with yourself.”

Lupin just grinned. “Me? _Honest_? You know better than that, Goemon. G’night.” He flicked a hand around in faint farewell, leaving Goemon to contemplate the dying fire alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, fanfics are free, and I hope they always remain so. But in times such as these, times when change is necessary and demanded, content creators have the power to help amplify voices. As such, please consider donating to Color of Change to help advocate for social justice:
> 
> https://colorofchange.org/
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Chaos


	5. In Which the Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lupin and co. plan their next move amid food stops and rainstorms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back again! Apologies for the slow updates on chapters, but I hope you enjoy nevertheless!

**Chapter Four, In Which the Game Begins**

Jigen awoke to an orchestra of cheerful birdsong. He groaned, a low rumble of irritation and promised pain, and shoved his hat higher onto his forehead. The wind had scattered leaves and small twigs all over the Fiat, making it look as though someone had done a very poor job at camouflage. Through the remaining clear glass he could see birds flitting back and forth from branch-to-branch, singing sweetly to herald the day.

Jigen had half a mind to pump the feathered menaces full of lead. His shoulders and back ached after a night passed out in the backseat of the Fiat, and Jigen couldn’t help the small pang of sympathy for Lupin and his current woes.

The man himself was still asleep in the front seat, blue coat tucked around his thin frame. Jigen made note of the purple circles cutting under Lupin’s eyes before sliding out of the Fiat. Another groan escaped him as various body parts popped back into place.

Goemon was sitting in the exact same spot Jigen had left him the night before: cross-legged in front of a crackling fire. The only appreciable difference was the open travel cooler beside him and the small pot of rice boiling over the open flame. “Good morning.”

Jigen just grunted as he collapsed down next to the cooler. He tipped it his way and pulled out a small package of precooked sausages. “Do you get _any_ sleep?”

“Someone must remain vigilant.” The words were impressive, but the yawn that followed ruined the sentiment.

“You’re so full of shit.” Jigen snorted. He yanked the sausage package open before accepting the charred stick and small frying pan Goemon passed to him. Stick in hand he maneuvered a few of the low-burning, piping-hot bits of wood from the main fire and set the pan on top of them.

“I’m not the only one,” Goemon said, with a surreptitious glance in the Fiat’s direction.

Lupin may still have been asleep, but that didn’t stop Jigen from lowering his voice. “I’m worried about him.”

“As am I. That gray hair startled him badly.”

“He was bound to get some eventually, wasn’t he? I mean, he’s…he’s…” Jigen paused in the middle of laying sausages down in the pan. He frowned as he reached backwards through his long years of partnership with Lupin, trying and failing to remember the last time anyone’s age had been brought up. “Say, Goemon, how old is Lupin, anyway?”

“We celebrated his birthday last August,” Goemon said. But he, too, was frowning. “He turned—hm. He said he was…”

A morbid sort of silence enveloped the pair as realization set in. Lupin had never been particularly forward with personal information, which was something Jigen and Goemon had accepted without question or complaint. They all had things in their past they were unwilling to discuss. But this—this felt different. This felt like the elephant in the room had finally trumpeted to get their attention.

Lupin’s oldest and dearest companions had no freaking clue how old he was.

“What if he’s immortal,” Goemon said at last, eyes wide, “and the spell is finally wearing off?”

“Then it’ll be nice to see him down here among the everyman for once.” Jigen rolled his eyes, an action lost behind the depths of his hat. “He’s just vain. He’ll get over it.”

The sausages sizzled as they hit the heated surface of the pan. Goemon took his pot of rice from over the fire, leaving Jigen free to prepare a small pot of water. They prepped breakfast in silence, which was only broken by the chatter of those gossipy birds overhead. Jigen scowled as one stubby little specimen swooped low, alighting momentarily on the hood of the Fiat. “If the car gets covered in birdshit Lupin’s the one cleaning it.”

Goemon’s eyes lowered from the little intruder to the sleeping Lupin. His brow knitted in concern. “You’re older than Lupin. I think. Perhaps you have some advice for him?”

“About cleaning birdshit off the Fiat?”

“Regarding aging.”

“Oi! I’m not _that_ much older.” Jigen didn’t bother to hide his indignation. “And I wouldn’t know what advice to give. I don’t rely on flamboyancy the same way he does. I like to keep things simple. _Cool_.” He spread out his hands to gesture to the entirety of himself.

Goemon looked the gunman up and down once. “Of course.”

Fortunately for Goemon, Jigen was too wrapped up in his indignation to notice the slight sarcastic edge to his reply. He had folded both arms over his chest, and was now scowling down at the sizzling sausages. “Besides, Lupin doesn’t listen anyone. He’s lucky that skull of his is so thick—Fujiko would’ve cracked it ages ago otherwise.”

“What should we do, then?”

“For now? Keep an eye on him. And make sure he doesn’t get killed in this dick-measuring contest.”

The turn of phrase had a corner of Goemon’s mouth turning upwards. “You don’t sound enthused. Remember that you agreed to this.”

“I said I’d do it with him. Not that I wouldn’t complain the whole time.”

That earned a full chuckle in turn.

The rich smell of sausage and coffee roused Lupin at long last. He staggered up and out of the car, haggard and pale, with tie undone and jacket slung over one shoulder. He stared at his friends and the campfire with glassy, half-lidded eyes—and then his liver caught up to the rest of his system, churning with a half a bottle of buckwheat whisky. He clapped a hand to his mouth and darted off into the woods.

“Man.” Jigen took a contemplative sip of bitter campfire-side coffee. He wasn’t sure whether or not Lupin’s vomiting made for a better soundtrack to his morning than birdsong. “Remember that time we were sittin’ pretty in a nice French chateau, sleeping on feather beds and enjoying a gorgeous view of the hills with our specialty-prepared breakfast? Remember that time, Goemon?”

Goemon nodded as he split the cooked rice into three portions. “I see you’re exercising your right to complain early.”

“Just wanna make sure his ears are working.” Jigen raised his voice a little, all the better to be heard over the sound of Lupin upending what might have been most of his internal organs. He grinned, wickedly, when Lupin came stumbling back out of the woods. “Seems like you can’t drink like you’re twenty-one anymore.”

“Shut up.”

Lupin collapsed beside Jigen. He looked as though he’d gone a full twelve rounds with his liver, and he accepted the bowl of rice Goemon handed him without complaint. Jigen pushed the plate of sausages towards him before pouring a generous helping of thick, dark coffee into a travel mug. 

Rice, sausage, and coffee made for a modest breakfast, but by the time Lupin set his bowl aside the color had returned to his cheeks. He clasped his coffee mug with both hands, murmuring a soft thanks as Jigen poured the last of the coffee into it. The warmth seeped through his fingers and palms, which was welcome given the chill in the air. The gray, bloated clouds overhead promised more rain.

Jigen waited until Lupin emptied his mug completely. “So, where are we headed?”

“North,” Lupin answered. He began to retie his tie, fingers fumbling as he did up the knot.

“Any particular reason for that direction?”

“I like north.”

**…**

And so, it was north they went.

Jigen drove, and Goemon took his usual position in the backseat. This left Lupin free to kick his passenger seat back and stare out the window. Breakfast helped to mitigate the worst of the hangover headache, but it couldn’t do anything about the soreness in his shoulders. The hot, almost liquid pain was oddly familiar, as though someone had driven a blade deep into his back. The pain Lupin could handle—he’d taken plenty of knives in the back in this business.

It was the indignity he didn’t like.

Pain usually promised payout. He could handle pain if it was attached to something thrilling. It was the thrill he chased, the thrill he sought, moreso than any treasure under the sun. He needed it, damn it, as much as Jigen needed a target to fix his gun on. He could handle pain—any pain—if it meant he was living life to its fullest.

There was nothing thrilling about waking up in the front seat of your car with an aching back. There was no danger attached, no spark of excitement to compensate for the aches and pains. He had just…woken up hurting.

This didn’t change anything, he assured himself. He was still Lupin III, the world’s greatest thief, and no one could steal that title away. Plenty had tried. All had failed. It wasn’t just his agility or his flexibility that made him so damn good. It was his wits, his ability to be four steps ahead and three steps to the left of everyone else. His back and his shoulders and his hair and his liver could all betray him, and he would still find a way forward. As long as he had his mind, Lupin thought to himself, he would be just fine.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew Goemon had a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He sat up sharply, blinking gummy sleep out of his eyes. “Whazzuh?”

“We stopped for gas. And lunch.”

Fat, heavy drops of rain pattered against the roof of the Fiat like bullets. Lupin rolled down a window, stuck his hand out into the rainstorm. The water was icy against his skin, and he shivered as he splashed rainwater over his neck and face.

Jigen had parked the car on the main street of a quaint little town. Rain had emptied the narrow, cobbled streets and shuttered the windows of angular buildings. Nevertheless bursts of color and life dotted the street: springtime flowers bloomed in well-tended window boxes, and down the way small children took turns splashing in puddles. Lupin smiled softly. He liked quiet towns like these. They may not have had the hustle and bustle of the big cities, but they usually had the better food.

Speaking of which…

Jigen had disappeared into a little café, Goemon hot on his heels. Lupin sighed, fished around for his red umbrella, and followed suit.

A welcoming bell jingled as he opened the door to the café. It was mercifully empty, save for Jigen, Goemon, and a pretty young waitress who waved to him. “Good afternoon, sir!”

“Good afternoon!” he replied, effortlessly switching to French. He slid into the seat beside Jigen, who studied the menu with the intensity he usually reserved for moving targets. After a moment of searching he ordered two galettes, while Goemon settled for a simple cup of green tea.

“Y’know—” Jigen said with the slightest reproach “—you could at least _try_ something different.”

“I am contented.”

The waitress took their orders and hurried away, trying hard not to blush when Lupin flashed her a brilliant smile. Said smile vanished when Jigen whacked him over the head with the menu. “No.”

“But—!”

“ _No_.”

A sudden rush of low wind set the whole café to groaning. Curtains of heavy rain followed in its wake, flooding the narrow streets. By the time the waitress returned with Goemon’s tea and two cups of coffee, rainwater had completely choked the streets. Jigen had to lean against the window and squint just to find the Fiat in the torrent.

“Oof. Glad I’m not drivin’ in that.”

Lupin nodded. “We should see if there are any inns nearby, stay the night. That’ll allow whatever messengers Renard has to catch up with us.”

Jigen pulled back away from the window, frowning as something occurred to him. “Say…Lupin…how is Renard supposed to send you the information you need if we’re on the move?”

“Easy,” Lupin replied. He took his time pouring sugar and cream into his coffee, forcing Jigen and Goemon to wait for the elaboration: “He put a tracking device on my umbrella.”

Jigen choked on the coffee he had swallowed, leaving it to Goemon to glare at Lupin. “When did you realize this?”

“About five minutes after I left his manse. See?” Lupin raised his voice a little over the sudden sound of Jigen’s hacking and spluttering. He picked up his umbrella and laid it across the table, before unscrewing the end of the wooden handle. Sure enough, there was a small black chip nestled inside the handle. “Must’ve had a servant pop it on there while we were talking.”

“And you left it?”

“Well, I want him to feel like he’s doing _something_ well.” Lupin shrugged. He screwed the handle back on and set it down on the floor once more. “We’ve put enough miles between us and him that he’ll feel pretty damn satisfied when his runner finds us.”

Goemon nodded as Lupin’s intentions became clear. “You’re lulling him into a false sense of security, gambling on his confidence being his downfall.”

“I’ve placed worst bets before.”

At that moment, the waitress came around from the kitchen, balancing galettes in each hand. She was soaking wet, but still managed an apologetic smile as she set the piping hot plates down. “Sorry about the wait. Our supplies for the week just came in, and I have to get them all inside before the rain ruins them—”

Instantly Lupin was on his feet, rolling his shoulders back and putting on his very best gentlemanly air. “By all means, let me help you with getting those supplies in, miss.”

“Oh—no, I can manage it alone, really—”

“I insist! What sort of gentleman leaves a gorgeous woman to do all the work while he shoves pastry in his mouth?” He glanced over his shoulder at Jigen, who just shrugged and cut into his galette.

She turned beet red and stammered a thanks. Lupin followed her back around the corner into the kitchen, sweet French nothings already flying out of his mouth.

“Well,” Jigen said around a mouthful of pastry, “at least we don’t have to worry about his libido slowing down anytime soon.”

The tell-tale sound of a sharp _slap!_ and a yelp of pain echoed back to them.

“Or his mouth,” Goemon muttered.

**…**

The rain had not let up by evenfall, necessitating a hasty check-in to a nearby inn. The accommodations were modest, but preferable to another night spent in the Fiat. Jigen sprawled out on one of two narrow beds, having won the right to a bed in rocks-paper-scissors contest (a process that had taken longer than it should have, given Goemon and Jigen’s insistence Lupin strip himself of every gadget and then some in the name of fairness). Remote in hand, Jigen had clicked through every available channel and back before finally settling on some trashy dating show.

Goemon and Lupin had squished together on the remaining bed. Goemon was adamantly not paying attention to the buxom women onscreen and, strangely, neither was Lupin. He had a handkerchief spread out on his lap, one of his many gadgets in pieces on top of it. What looked to be a spool of metal wire occupied all of Lupin’s attention, and a low curse escaped him as his thumb slipped against the wire.

Instantly dark red blood welled up on the tip of his thumb. Lupin grimaced.

One of Jigen’s dark eyes flashed beneath his hat. “You okay?”

“Fine. S’just tripwire.”

Jigen opened his mouth to inquire further, but a polite knock on the door cut him short. He swung himself up and out of bed, shuffled over to the door, and opened it a crack. Lupin cocked his head to the side, half-listening to the apologetic tone from the night clerk and Jigen’s curt reply. After a moment the door closed again, and Jigen reappeared with a sealed envelope in hand.

“Got a message here from your little friend.”

“Well, well, well, that didn’t take very long.” Lupin set his tripwire aside and sat up a little. “You wanna do the honors?”

Jigen shrugged, tore the sealed envelope open, and began to read:

_“Lupin—_

_The country inside the city has all sorts of wonderful treasures in mind. I have a modest target in mind (one must be able to make off with the bloody thing, after all). In the house of two fathers, a stone zoo is guarded by a hunter of great renown. There’s a curious little creature in this zoo…ears perked, eyes fixed on what lies beyond his barred existence._

_Shall we show him the world?_

_-Renard”_

Lupin was grinning by the time Jigen finished. “ _Oho_. Clues! He really does want to do this the proper way, then. Can you read it again?”

Jigen obliged him, frowning when he finished. “The country inside the city…”

“Well, there’s really only one of those, isn’t there?” Lupin’s grin doubled in size.

Realization clicked a split-second later. Jigen’s jaw dropped. “Vatican City? The kid’s first big heist, and he wants to go after the _Vatican_?”

“Hey, go big or go home! I like his style!” With that, Lupin sprang up and out of bed. The Vatican! Renard certainly hadn’t pulled his opening punch. Already his mind swirled with facts, maps, tricks and tools. This would require a very careful setup. One didn’t just waltz in and out of the Holy See. More’s the pity…

“What was all that about a stone zoo?” Goemon asked. He beckoned for the letter, which Jigen passed to him.

“Dunno.” Lupin moved to the window, grinning out at the wild storm. “But we’re going to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> -Lupin has never been given an official age (nor have any of his co-stars). Given that Lupin the Franchise works from a negative continuity, and Lupin the Character plays personal details very close to the chest, this gives me a little leeway in how old Lupin is at this point. We'll find out. Eventually. ;)
> 
> There's also been a significant lack of Zenigata thus far! That shall change soon enough...
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


	6. In Which Four's A Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Eternal City, our trio becomes a quartet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update? In less than a week? Perish the thought. 
> 
> As always, a big thanks to Belphegor for her speedy beta work!

**Chapter Five, In Which Four's A Crowd**

Lupin loved Rome in the springtime. The temperature had yet to become unbearable, and the swell of tourists had yet to flood the city. Pink and red flowers lent the Eternal City a sense of renewal, a breath of fresh air. A faint wind swept through the city, rippling the already-churning waters of the Trevi Fountain.

From the steps of the famous fountain Lupin watched a pickpocket meander through the crowd. The pickpocket moved at leisure, hands snaking in and out of unguarded pockets and purses. His own fingers twitched reflexively. It would be so easy to help himself to a few wallets. He wouldn’t even lift any IDs…just some handfuls of cash, enough to pay for a cup of gelato.

Jigen snapped his lighter closed and took a long, contemplative drag off his cigarette. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the Vatican in the _other_ direction?”

Lupin swung both arms out to indicate the gorgeous Trevi fountain and the crowd gathered around it. “C’mon, Jigen, when in Rome! Long as we’re here, we might as well enjoy the sights!”

“Are those the sights you speak of?” Goemon demanded suddenly. He pointed across the crowd at an approaching figure.

Heads swiveled and eyes widened as she passed. Even the pickpocket, so aware of his immediate surroundings, stopped dead in his tracks. The crowd parted like a wave before Fujiko Mine, and for an instant even the roar of the fountain dulled against the click of her chic spring heels on pavement. Sunlight shimmered through the deep red dye in her hair, a deep red that nicely complemented the shade of her lipstick.

Instantly Lupin was on his feet, waving to get her attention. “Fujiko, hey!”

“Oh,” Jigen said, with the same amount of enthusiasm one might work up for a vat of nuclear waste. “Fujiko. Yay.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Jigen.” Fujiko’s tone was cordial as she sank down onto the marble steps beside Lupin. She leaned over, took his chin in her hand, and dragged his gaze from her low-cut blouse up to her eyes. “It’s been far too long.”

Lupin melted like a stick of butter in a frying pan.

“Why are you here?” Goemon asked. He folded his arms over his chest, and Jigen copied the action.

“I’m here at Lupin’s request.” Fujiko relinquished her grip on the man in question, ignoring how he slumped down on the steps. “He told me you were going to pulling off a difficult job, so I came to offer my…assistance.” She adjusted her blouse slightly, giving Jigen and Goemon a good look at the assets she was willing to provide. She winked when a small noise of consternation left Jigen.

Goemon remained unimpressed. “How much has he told you?”

“Not much. Care to fill me in, Lupin?”

Lupin roused himself out of catatonic state long enough to give Fujiko a rundown. When he finished she clucked her tongue. “Feeling threatened? I never took you for the type to waste time on petty contests.”

It was a rare occasion indeed when Jigen and Fujiko could agree on anything, but Lupin refused to savor the opportunity. Instead he sniffed and tugged at his lapels. His eyes found the pickpocket again, who had recovered enough from his stupor to begin trolling for his next victim. “I’m not threatened. I’m just answering a challenge.”

“Well, Lord Renard should keep you busy for a little while, at least.”

“You’ve met him?”

“In passing.” Fujiko shrugged. “He and I are equally bored by rich old men at parties.”

Smoke billowed out from beneath Jigen’s hat. “Slept with him yet?”

“Oh, please. He’s barely legal.” The daggers Fujiko shot in Jigen’s direction would have killed a lesser man. “And in any case, Lupin is more his type.”

Lupin’s eyes were still on the pickpocket, even as he scowled. “Barely legal? He’s twenty- _one_. Remember all the nonsense we got up to when we were twenty-one?”

“Vividly. Though I won’t admit to half of it,” Fujiko replied. She tucked her legs up and leaned against Lupin, an action that earned eyerolls from both Jigen and Goemon. “We were an overconfident bunch at twenty-one, weren’t we?”

The pickpocket bumped up against an unsuspecting woman. His hand flashed in and out of her pocket, and then he was backing away, apologizing profusely. Not bad, Lupin thought. The theatrics of the apology were a bit much, but everyone had to start somewhere. The pickpocket vanished into the crowd once more, heading for the other side of the fountain.

“Must be a twenty-one thing,” Lupin said. “He’s very overconfident, if he thinks he can go tit-for-tat with _me_.”

“So, what exactly is the score? I don’t want to be carting off some saint’s bones.”

Every thief worth his lockpicking kit knew there was no better place for him than a crowd. In groups of fifteen or more, people just became too wrapped up in themselves to pay attention to other people. They laughed together and snapped photos, ate gelato and chased after runaway children, and not a single one of them paid any amount of attention to the other. The neglect wasn’t out of maliciousness (a good thief also knew how to sway the crowd, should the moment arise), but simply one born out of overwhelming noise and a need to focus on their own priorities. Hard to pay attention to someone else’s kid when yours was trying to dive headfirst into a historical landmark. In the epicenter of a large crowd, the amateurs picked pockets. The masters planned heists.

So to Fujiko’s question Lupin just shrugged. “Nothing so inevitably cursed. Renard wants something small enough to carry out the door. _In the house of two fathers_ …” He whipped out a brochure of the Vatican Museums and handed it off. “We figure it’s the Pio-Clementino Museum.”

“Named after two Popes,” Jigen added. He had gone back to watching the fountain, observing with interest a small child trying (and failing) to scoop coins out of the splashing water.

“The stone zoo mostly likely refers to a hall of carved animals,” Goemon said. He, like Jigen, was watching the small child, and tut-tutted when her mother whisked her away from her shiny quarry. “Though we do not know which one, yet.”

“All right.” Fujiko said slowly. “What are we up against?”

“The best security pious money can buy, and the Gendarmerie of the Vatican. With any luck we won’t have to worry about the Swiss Guard. Though I’m sure you can handle them if we do, Goemon.”

A corner of Goemon’s mouth twitched upwards. “I relish the opportunity.”

“Jigen and I will take care of security details,” Lupin continued. “And you…”

Fujiko held up a finger to stop him short. “Let me guess…you need someone in there to distract those poor, repressed Catholic boys.”

“I have the maid outfit ready if you wanna try it—”

Fujiko and Jigen slapped him upside the head at the same time. Lupin pitched forward on the steps with a yelp. “All right, all right, fine! Yeesh.”

Fujiko, having found a momentary ally in the form of Jigen, scooted back away from Lupin and crossed her arms over her chest. “Give me one good reason why I should help you.”

Lupin rubbed at the sore spot on the back of his head. Something in the crowd had caught his interest, and his reply of “How about the fact that you owe me one?” was absent-minded.

Three girls had grouped together in front of the fountain; one held her phone aloft, recording the others as they began to dance. It was a rapid-fire dance, their movements smooth and coordinated, and when the dance ended all three fell into a fit of giggles.

“Since when do I owe you?” Fujiko was saying.

“For that time in Zurich.”

“Oh, do _not_ bring up Zurich!”

“Why? Because you know I’m right about you owing me?”

“No, because that whole business was your fault! You know full well you only have yourself to blame for how poorly that job went, never mind—Lupin! Where are you going?! LUPIN!”

He didn’t answer. He had hopped to his feet, and now navigated the crowds with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Fujiko, Goemon, and Jigen watched in collective bafflement as Lupin made his way to the trio of teenage girls. Whatever he said to them instantly sent them into a fresh round of hysterics. One gestured for his phone, which he relinquished without argument. Lupin laughed, rolled to the balls of his feet, and leveled his gaze at the pickpocket.

The pickpocket stopped short as their eyes met. He’d been within arm’s reach of the teenagers when Lupin stepped between them. Now the pickpocket tensed and scowled, and Lupin’s genial smile only grew.

Jigen watched the way the pickpocket’s hand drifted to his waist. His own hand was at his waistline, tensing in preparation for a fight.

“Relax,” Fujiko murmured. “He won’t want to pick a fight in a crowd this size.”

Sure enough, the pickpocket mouthed what was no doubt a vile curse, turned on his heel, and stalked off in the opposite direction. Lupin turned back to the girls, who handed him his phone with a smile. From the depths of his sleeve Lupin produced a red rose (Fujiko groaned) and handed it off to the giggling girls with a smile.

He came back to the group with eyes locked on his phone’s screen. Only then did Jigen relax his hand away from his gun’s holster.

“What are you doing?” Fujiko asked, eyebrow arched.

“Downloading a new app. Kids say it’s called Dancr.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because it’s important to be up-to-date with the latest global trends! Here, hold this!”

He tossed his phone to Goemon, who fumbled forward and held it with the same trepidation some people held newborn babies. “What am I supposed to…?”

“Just hold it! It’s already recording, I just need to—”

Lupin grinned, rolled his shoulders back and launched into the same rapid-fire, multi-step dance he’d seen the teenagers do. Or, rather…

He tried.

What had been a completely-coordinated, almost elegant dance for teenager girls better resembled a stroke on Lupin. His long limbs flew in every direction without rhyme or reason, and twice he tripped over his own two feet. By the time he finished, Fujiko was in hysterics, Jigen had pulled his hat over his eyes to spare himself the sight, and poor Goemon could only stare in horror.

“Okay.” Lupin took a deep breath, trying and failing not to let how winded he was show. “So that needs work.”

A low laugh sounded behind him. Lupin turned, more annoyed than surprised to see Renard standing there. He had a cup of gelato in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other, and sunscreen smeared down his freckled nose.

“Apologies,” he called over the low din of the crowd, “It was a good first try. I didn’t know you knew Dancr!”

“Dancr, sure. Love it. My favorite app,” Lupin replied. He beckoned Renard closer. “What’re you doing here?”

“Same thing you’re doing here, I imagine.” Renard said. He extended a hand out to Jigen and Goemon in turn. For Fujiko, it was a sweeping bow. “Mademoiselle Mine. A pleasure, as always.”

“Careful, Renard.” Fujiko winked. “One of these days I might think you mean it.”

He grinned and winked back. Lupin, for some reason, found this terribly annoying, and was momentarily overwhelmed by the urge to knock the gelato out of Renard’s hand. He grabbed his phone back from Goemon and shoved it into his pocket. “I hope you’re not eavesdropping on a private conversation.”

“Oh, no.” Renard nodded towards the Trevi fountain. “Just came to toss a coin in. I’m going to need all the luck I can get.”

“Yes,” Lupin said, forcing himself to smile. “You are.”

**…**

Two were liable to draw less attention than four, and so Lupin and Fujiko started out for the Vatican as just another pair of good-looking tourists.

It cost sixteen euros each for entry into the Vatican Museums, but the sights were well worth it. The glut of summer tourists had yet to arrive, but still visitors crowded the halls and rotundas of the interconnected museums. Protocol dictated silence and respect for the venerated ground, and the absence of the usual chatter of large crowds and the flash of cameras only added to the impression of holy ground.

The temperature inside was comfortable despite the heat of the afternoon and the press of bodies. Lupin had to credit the engineers and architects for that: high, domed ceilings and wide corridors allowed for maximum airflow. The sheer scale of the buildings also had the useful effect of making the average visitor seem very small.

Lupin stopped short in the middle of one rotunda. He craned his neck upwards to study the huge dome above. Elegant golden arches and images of saints in alternating agony and ecstasy decorated the ceiling. Sunlight streamed through half-moon windows. The windows wouldn’t be a problem, as far as he could tell. But the height posed a good challenge. One false grip of a rope or wire and— _splat_. All over the tile floors decorated with ancient heroes dying glorious deaths. The irony of the scenario made him snort.

Beside him Fujiko sighed heavily. She tapped her thumb against her phone’s screen to no avail. “No available Wi-Fi.”

“’Course not. These guys didn’t need Wi-Fi.” He nodded towards the statues of antiquity lining the hall. Each had been placed against a blood-orange backdrop, a color that threw details into sharp relief. One had to admire the craftsmanship of the sculptors: details like folds in cloth and taut muscles were almost lifelike. In front of them, a group of teenaged tourists wearing headsets wandered up and down the hall. Some took in the art reverently, while others—mostly boys—snickered at the anatomy on display. Lupin couldn’t rightly blame them. The Greeks certainly knew how to sculpt a pair of breasts.

Fujiko jabbed him when his gaze lingered too long on one carved chest. “No Wi-Fi available to visitors,” she said again, “but that can’t be true for the entire site. Someone has to tune in somewhere.”

Lupin was inclined to agree. His eyes flitted over the walls and ceilings once more. “No security cameras either.”

“No visible security cameras,” Fujiko corrected. “Only one way to find out what sort of eye they keep on the valuables. Lupin?”

“Waaay ahead of you!”

With that, Lupin bounded over to the same statue the teenage boys ogled. “Hey, look honey!” he bellowed. “They’re about as real as yours!” As the teenagers burst out in laughter, one of Lupin’s hands drifted towards the statue’s chest, fingers twitching in anticipation of a squeeze—

And, as if on cue, a security guard came hurrying towards them, waving an arm and speaking in rushed Italian. He shooed Lupin away from the statue and back towards the amused Fujiko. Lupin smiled sheepishly and waved a hand around in apology. Mollified, the guard turned around and began to chasten the giggling teenagers.

“You’re supposed to be canvassing this place,” Fujiko said, “not admiring the works of art.”

“Who says I can’t do both?” Lupin flashed the security guard’s pilfered identification badge between his fingers before sliding it into his pocket. “That outta be useful in getting us inside access.”

“That still doesn’t cover all the details.” Fujiko tossed her hair over her shoulder and started off again. “And for the record, you know full well these are real.”

“Boy, do I!”

Lupin quickened his pace to walk beside her. Without thinking he reached out, linked his fingers with hers. After a moment, Fujiko tightened the grip. Hand in hand they walked through the Vatican, just one more couple among dozens.

It was always like this, Lupin thought. The give and take, the hot and cold, the catch and release. Theirs was a relationship that did best without labels. They had tried—time and again, they had tried—but staying in one spot, attaching themselves to just one idea…no, that wasn’t them. Lupin didn’t want that to be them. Nor, he knew, with a rare sense of complete certainty about anything, did Fujiko. The unpredictability was the thing they loved best about each other.

Together they turned the corner, and as they did it occurred to Lupin that they had been playing this particular game of cat and mouse for years. Many years. Almost as many years as Oliver Renard had been alive. Which meant…

“Say…Fuji…how does your back feel when you wake up these days?”

The question earned him a bemused look. “Is that some roundabout way of asking me if I’m seeing anyone?”

“Ye—no.” Lupin cleared his throat. He shrugged, attempting to put on a nonchalant air—which was hard to do when Fujiko kept staring at him. He pulled his hand out of her grasp and pressed it to the small of his back. The pain had eased over the past few days, given that he was sleeping in a hotel room and not the front seat of the Fiat, but it hadn’t been completely mitigated. “It’s just, I—”

Fujiko cocked an eyebrow.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” he admitted.

It felt silly to say it out loud, but when he forced himself to look at Fujiko her expression had softened considerably. “I take it this means you haven’t been seeing anyone lately either.”

“Only Jigen and Goemon,” Lupin made a face, “and believe me, they are _not_ a pretty sight first thing in the morning.”

Fujiko laughed softly. “Is your body reminding you that you’re not Renard’s age anymore?”

“Less my body and more everyone around me.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No.” A moment passed in complete silence. Then Lupin grimaced. “But do you have any advice?”

“It’s rude to inquire after a lady’s aging.” Nevertheless, she took him by the wrist and guided him towards a more secluded section of the museum. “It’s mind over matter, Lupin. Take care of yourself and you’ll be fine. And moisturize.”

“Moisturize?”

“Good skincare can do wonders.”

“Can you recommend any…” His question fell away into silence. He had looked over his shoulder, peering further down the gold-and-white corridor to another wing. “Hey. Look over there.”

The hall of animals was hard to miss. It stretched out perpendicular from the main hall, a modest little off-shoot from the grandiose displays. True to its name, the Hall of Animals contained sculptures and models of all varieties of creatures, a menagerie of elegant masonry.

Fujiko glanced between the two wings. “Which way?”

“Renard mentioned something about a mighty hunter.” Lupin entered the right wing and moved to the very back. Sure enough, a lone human figure stood guard over the stone menagerie. A faithful dog sat on one side, while a boar’s head—the object of his conquest—took up the other.

“That’s the hunter.” Fujiko said in a low tone. She nodded towards the barred windows and gate set into the right wall, leading to another second of the Vatican. “There’s the window to the world.”

Lupin spun in a full circle. “There’s the little beastie!”

Sure enough, across from the barred gate was a shelf of various small statues, just big enough to pick up and run with. Only one of said statues faced outwards towards the window. Its ears were perked, and it had one leg lifted in anticipation of a chase.

Lupin and Fujiko both squinted at it. “Is it a wolf?”

“I think it’s supposed to be a cat.”

“Either way…I want it.”

His heart skipped a beat. This was how it began, how it always began; he’d set his gaze on something just out of reach, something he wasn’t supposed to have, and suddenly it was all he wanted. This little stone beastie was just one among hundreds of statues—but this one, above all others, had to belong to him now. Because someone else said no. Because someone else said _I’ll take it, and you can’t have it_.

Lupin liked to consider himself a well-adjusted sort of fellow.

He just didn’t like it when someone else got to play with the nice toys.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away. “I need more details on security. Only one way to do that without looking completely suspicious.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to impersonate the Pope.”

“Nah. I have someone a little more fun in mind.”

**…**

Inspector Zenigata’s hangdog face scowled back at him from the bathroom mirror. He leaned so far forward that the tip of his nose brushed against the reflective surface. His grip on the bathroom sink was white-knuckled. “LUPIN!”

And then he drew back, tapping a finger to his chin. “No, wait, no, a little lower…ahem… _LUPIN_! Yeah, that’s it!”

Goemon poked his head into the hotel bathroom. He frowned at the contemplative Zenigata. “Your impression needs work.”

Zenigata turned, scowled, and reached up to grip his own hair. The mask came away easily, leaving Lupin to glower at Goemon in Zenigata’s clothes. “My impression is _fine_.”

He marched out of the bathroom with as much dignity as he could sum up. Which…wasn’t much, considering that Zenigata was both taller and more broad-shouldered, and in the absence of the necessary padding Lupin looked less like a perfect imitation of Zenigata and more like he’d just left a one-night stand. Goemon hid a smile as Lupin waddled over to his hotel bed, one hand clamped on the too-long khaki pants to keep them from slipping down.

Muttering now to himself, Lupin began digging through his disguise kit. With his free hand he yanked out odds and ends—padding and wires and neat little gizmos that made a thief’s life easier—and cursed when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. “Have either of you seen my copy of Pops’ badge? I can’t get in there without my badge.”

“Try your other kit,” Jigen answered. He sat by the window, occasionally peering out at the quiet streets below. “You haven’t had to use it since Rabat.”

“Oh, right! Thanks!”

Lupin dove into another trunk. From the bathroom door Goemon watched him with arms folded.

“Remind me why this is a good idea.”

“Well,” Lupin’s voice echoed from the depths of his trunk, “what’s a better way to get information on security detail that as someone trying to catch a notorious criminal mastermind? I’ve already sent my calling card ahead. And where Lupin goes, Zenigata follows!”

“Y’know the Gendarmerie will check in with Interpol about Pops bein’ here,” Jigen said. “That’s only gonna get the old man here faster.”

“Good!”

Lupin’s flippant tone had Goemon taking a deep, calming breath. “Has it occurred to you that our operations would be much smoother if you did not flag Zenigata’s attention at every turn?”

“Bah. Where’s the fun in a smooth operation?”

Jigen and Goemon exchanged a look. Lupin didn’t notice: he had finally popped out of the trunk, crowing in triumph as he held up his copy of Zenigata’s identification. Neither man said a word as Lupin finished padding up his disguise and pulling on his mask. The total process—plus the application of bells and whistles—took another twenty minutes, but Lupin was in too good of a mood to question the silence.

At long last, it was Zenigata who puffed up his chest and scowled at them from the bedroom door. “When I get back, you’re all under arrest!”

The hotel door opened and shut, Zenigata-Lupin’s heavy footfalls faded into silence, and at last Goemon turned to Jigen.

“Stealing from the Vatican will be challenge enough. This would be much simpler without Zenigata’s presence.”

Jigen sighed and got to his feet. To Goemon’s dark look he just shrugged. “Lupin can’t do anything without an audience, you know that.”

“Hm.” Goemon’s gaze drifted to Lupin’s disguise trunk. Masks and ties and bits of cloth scattered the bed and floor. His brow furrowed, suddenly, as an unwanted thought popped into his head.

The crease was gone as quick as it came, but Jigen had seen it clear as day. “What?”

“Lupin has attention enough from Renard. He doesn’t have to bring Zenigata into this.”

“Force of habit, then? You gotta admit, it never feels right doing a job without Pops tailing us.”

“Perhaps,” Goemon said slowly, in the tone of voice one used when they weren’t convinced of something at all.

“You got another idea?”

Goemon moved to take Jigen’s place at the window. He settled himself down on the ac unit, his eyes already on the street below. “It’s still forming.”

One day, Jigen assured himself, one day the people around him would stop being so damn cryptic all the damn time. He snatched his cigarette box from the nightstand and made for the door. “Well, let me know when it’s finished. I’m takin’ my union-sanctioned smoke break.”

Goemon didn’t reply. His eyes remained locked on the broad-shouldered figure in the red trench coat, moving with an unearned confidence in the direction of the Vatican.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I had the pleasure of visiting the Vatican some years back! My main lingering impressions are how fancy everything was and the exceptionally bored security guard who had to keep telling tourists to stop talking in the Sistine Chapel. 
> 
> 2)Even though this is a LoopZoop fic (we're getting there! Gotta put all the pieces in place first!) ignoring or downplaying Lupin and Fujiko's relationship and their feelings for each other didn't feel right. Do they care deeply for each other? Absolutely. Is their relationship a game of catch and release? Also absolutely. It's a very interesting relationship, and not without its narrative foils...
> 
> 3) Dancr, in case it's not obvious, is a diet TikTok. What's the fun of writing a fanfic if you don't get to come up with your own apps along the way? 
> 
> 4) And before you all start throwing tomatoes, there technically was *a* Zenigata in this chapter....
> 
> ...we should probably check in on how the old man is doing, though.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. See you soon! :)
> 
> Chaos


	7. In Which A New Dog Learns An Old Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, elsewhere...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Belphegor for her quick beta work!

**Chapter Six, In Which A New Dog Learns An Old Trick**

Far way—but not too far for Lupin’s comfort—Inspector Zenigata’s stomach rumbled.

The Inspector stood in front of a dingy hotel microwave, watching his cup of instant ramen spin with an intensity unparalleled. He was in a rare state of undress: jacket and vest removed, tie gone, buttons on his undershirt halfway undone. Clothes may have made some men, but not Zenigata. The intensity around him was innate and unquenchable…even when he stood half-dressed in a cheap hotel room, watching an even-cheaper Styrofoam cup spin in a battered old microwave.

The microwave dinged—a noise that almost sounded like a mechanical cry for help—and Zenigata retrieved his dinner. A low hiss escaped him as the cup’s heat seared his fingers. He held his piping hot cup gingerly as he moved to sit on the sagging, moth-bitten couch. The ancient television set crackled and popped, the images onscreen fuzzy and gray.

Zenigata scowled.

The television, perhaps realizing who it was dealing with, snapped into clarity. Zenigata settled back, eyes narrowed at the female news anchor who popped up. His free hand drifted towards the remote.

“New allegations of corruption have been brought to light by—”

Click.

“—an arrest has been made in the murder of—”

Click.

“—new at seven! The sports report, readying for the playoffs—”

Click.

“—is YOUR home protected? Call now for a free consultation—!”

Click.

“—order natural male enhancement supplements now, and receive your first order fifty-percent off!”

Zenigata gnashed his teeth and clicked the television off. Nothing, he thought as he began to slurp up sodium-soaked noodles. Not a notice, not a hint, not a peep. It had been two, nearly three weeks since Lupin had slipped through his fingers in Portofino. Allowing time for travel, and time for Lupin to set his sights on a new goal, the slippery little crook should have given some sort of notice by now.

So where the fuck was he?

Perhaps he’d gone to ground. He’d done that before, vanished for months, even years at a time, living it up somewhere while Zenigata tracked his shadow. Perhaps this was another lull period.

No. Zenigata frowned. The ramen seared his tongue, but the pain barely registered against his mental consternation. No. No, that didn’t ring right. Lupin vanished after spectacular, dangerous, or spectacularly dangerous heists, giving him time to recover and tempers to cool. The Portofino job hadn’t been anything nearly that wild, save for that dive off the roof.

Zenigata’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with artificial spices. That dive off the hotel roof—if Jigen hadn’t been there…

If Jigen hadn’t been there, he reminded himself sharply, Lupin would have pulled something else out of his skinny ass.

That was the most infuriating thing about the monkey-limbed bastard. And Infuriating Things About Lupin was _not_ a short list. It never failed to amaze him, how Lupin could bend a situation, _any_ situation to his most favorable outcome. He didn’t know whether it was wits or luck or a combination of both, but when Lupin finally ran into a situation he couldn’t backflip his way out of…

Zenigata set his empty cup of ramen aside with undue force.

When Lupin’s luck ran out, he’d be there to arrest him. No more, no less.

He stood and moved to the window, agitated without knowing why. Parisian city lights had begun to blink on, illuminating the City of Lights in yellow and white. It might have been a romantic sight, if you were interested in such things. Zenigata certainly wasn’t. But Lupin couldn’t resist a pretty girl and a lovely spring night. A pair of young lovers passed in front of the hotel, the man wrapping his coat around the woman’s exposed shoulders.

They might have been Lupin and Fujiko. But they weren’t. Zenigata knew that in his gut. He sighed, moved back the couch, and stretched out. He grabbed his fedora and lowered it over his eyes.

Lupin would make his move in due time. For now, he could afford to relax a little—

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

“INSPECTOR!”

Oh, _thank God_.

Instantly Zenigata was on his feet and at the door. He wrenched it open to reveal a harried-looking Goro Yatagarasu. At once Yata snapped to attention. “Sorry to bother you, sir!”

“There’s been word on Lupin.” Zenigata stepped back, allowing his young assistant to step into the room.

Yata knew it was a statement, not a question. “Not word, exactly. But he’s been sighted.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he spoke. “You should see this.”

Together they sat on the sagging couch. Yata held out his phone screen, leaving Zenigata to stare at the pixelated D gyrating its dubious excuse for hips onscreen.

“Yata.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What the hell am I looking at?”

“It’s a loading screen. Sir.”

Zenigata grunted. He had no use for apps, save the one that told him the weather forecast and the one that let him play his favorite music (though Yata had had to argue long and hard for that one, and was also the one largely in charge of maintaining the Long Car Drive playlist). Those apps had some semblance of practicality. The rest were just distractions from his job.

With that in mind he arched an eyebrow at Yata. “You seem very familiar with this.”

Yata had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I…might have a few favorite videos. It’s a good way to pass the—oh! Here we go!”

The front page loaded into an eye-searing blue, accompanied by trending videos, recommended videos, and the favorited videos that told him nothing. Except—

The thumbnail of the number one trending video was a quick doodle of a grinning man. A little caricature Zenigata had seen so many damn times it practically haunted his sleep. With a growl he clicked on it.

The video started and—yes!—Zenigata’s heart gave a squeeze, a momentary stop that (hopefully) had little to do with the amount of salt currently churning through his kidneys.

Onscreen, Lupin beamed at his viewers, waving before tossing the phone to someone off-screen. Goemon, Zenigata assessed, judging by the fumbled catch and the awkward angle the video was shot from. He frowned as Lupin took two steps backwards and launched into a ridiculous multi-step dance. Zenigata’s frown only deepened. He’d always known Lupin to be full of boundless energy, an energy he could effortlessly translate into grace when he needed to. But this…

Well. This just made him look _stupid_.

His spindly limbs did him no favors as he stumbled through the dance steps. Zenigata couldn’t help a wince of sympathy as Lupin’s arms flailed uselessly. “What is he trying to do?”

“The Outlaw. It’s the newest dance craze among teens and twenty-somethings.” Yata clicked on another video. In it, a teenage girl danced a fluid, full-body dance set to high-tempo music. Zenigata had to hand it to her: with someone who knew what they were doing, the dance looked almost fun.

Something about Yata’s statement had Zenigata glancing his way. “Twenty-somethings, huh?”

“Yes, sir. Not that I…ever participated in this sort of dance. Sir.”

Zenigata ‘hmm’d and went back to the app. “Pull Lupin up again.”

He watched it twice over. No declaration of intent, no flashy show of charm or wealth; not even trying, really, to cultivate some sort of presence. Just Lupin having fun, acting like an idiot, while Fujiko laughed and Jigen groaned off-screen.

Damn him.

“How many people have seen this? What is the reaction?”

“He’s already got over five-hundred thousand views, and the video has only been posted for a few hours. As the reactions, uh…” Yata cleared his throat and handed the phone to Zenigata. “Here.”

A moment of silence passed as Zenigata read through the general public’s reaction to Lupin the Third. His eyebrows knitted together in bafflement.

“Why are so many people asserting Lupin is their father?”

Yata took a sudden interest in the empty cup of ramen. “That, uh…they mean something else, sir.”

Another beat of silence.

“Oh.”

He passed the phone back to Yata, trying (and failing) not to turn red. He coughed, hard, and settled back. “All right. Where’s Lupin?”

Yata blinked. ‘Where’s Lupin?’ was Zenigata’s favorite guessing game, but his superior was usually asking himself that question, not his assistant. “You’re…asking me?”

“You’re going to tell me…” Zenigata nodded towards Lupin’s video. “Pause the video, and tell me what you see in the frame.”

Yata did as asked. The grinning, frozen Lupin took up most of the shot, but he could make out other people and the corner of a building in the background. Yata expanded the image, focused on those distracted people in the background. “He’s in a crowd. It has to be a big space.”

“Plenty of big spaces out there. What else?”

It was sunny in the video. It had been posted a few hours ago…checking weather reports across Europe would help narrow down different regions. No, perhaps that would not be needed. The people in the crowd were dressed for heat: loose clothing, cargo shorts and flowing skirts. In the background he could make out a redhead with sunblock smeared down his nose. The redhead held a cup of ice cream and a spoon. It had to be a warm environment, then. Warmer than France. Warm meant further south. And what little of the building he could see was white, with a narrow window, a classic style most associated with…

“Italy!” Yata exclaimed. “He’s in Italy!”

Zenigata’s smile was small but fierce. “Very good.”

Yata pocketed his phone before frowning at his superior. “You knew,” he said, trying not to sound accusatory.

“I figured it out.” Zenigata shrugged. “But you don’t learn if I figure it out for you.”

His tone hadn’t changed from its usual gruffness, but all the same Yata could hear the praise. He sat up a little straighter. “What do you think he’s after?”

“With our luck? The damn Colosseum.” Zenigata sat back and rubbed at his chin. “He hasn’t been back to Italy in years. What could have enticed him?”

As if in answer, his own cell phone started ringing.

Zenigata answered with a curt greeting. Yata took that as his cue to stand and move away, grabbing the empty Styrofoam cup as he went to the kitchenette. The sorry state of the kitchenette made him sigh. Zenigata had neither the budget nor the temperament for luxury, but even so there were days Yata wished he could convince the Inspector to at least spring for a Holiday Inn.

“HE DID WHAT?!”

The bellicose shout sent Yata two feet into the air. He scrambled back to the couch, in time to watch a purpling Zenigata leap to his feet.

“Yes, sir. Understood. We’ll be there in twelve hours. Eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes, if I have my way.”

He hung up with a force designed to break the phone. For a moment Zenigata stood still, trembling from head-to-toe with rage. No, Yata corrected himself, not completely rage—even as he clenched his fists a corner of his mouth twitched upwards. A low rumble escaped him, a noise that might have been a growl or a badly-suppressed laugh.

“THAT SON OF A BITCH!”

He rounded on Yata. “Pack your bags! We’re on the next train to Rome!”

**…**

“—the Vatican police notified ICPO after he left the premises. Interpol, of course, hadn’t given me the go-ahead to leave Paris.”

The French countryside whizzed by at a brisk pace. Zenigata watched the blurred landscape without really seeing it. His fingers drummed against the small table between himself and Yata. Yata had been dutifully taking notes, but now set his small journal aside.

“Why? He had to know the Vatican police would speak with ICPO about your presence.”

“Of course he does. He’s counting on my being there. It’s all part of some scheme he has ready.”

Yata hesitated, a long moment, before daring to speak again: “So why answer his summons?” He squared his shoulders as Zenigata tore his gaze from the window. “If you being there is all part of his plan, why enable that plan? Shouldn’t we send someone else?”

For a moment all that could be heard was the trundle of the train car. Yata swallowed hard.

Then Zenigata folded his arms over chest and turned back to the window. “They would all fail. Lupin is good at being three steps ahead and two steps to the left of everyone else. I at least know he’s going to step left. Every encounter helps me understand the when and how of stepping left better. You as well, someday.”

“Sir?”

“You need exposure to the little bastard’s tricks. So—he’s going after a statue in one of the Vatican Museums, according to the calling card he sent ahead. What does he need to do to succeed? Criteria and constraints, Yata. Always start with that.”

Yata cocked his head to the side in thought. These mental exercises always left him feeling dizzy, but he supposed that was the point. “His criteria is getting in and out in one piece. A better understanding of the security system would help with that. I’m sure they gave the Inspector a thorough review once he flashed his badge.”

“Good. And the constraints?”

“Well, he’s on a time limit now that we’ve been alerted. And he can’t pull the same trick twice—”

Zenigata wagged a finger. “Never say _can’t_ when Lupin is involved.”

“Oh. Right. Then he _probably_ won’t use the same trick twice. Not when the Vatican police will be watching.”

“Hmm. Better,” Zenigata said. He slumped down in his seat and closed his eyes. “Impersonating me in the Vatican. Tch. I’m going to kill him for this.”

Yata muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “no you won’t”.

And Zenigata was magnanimous enough to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I have my qualms with Part V (mostly in that I think it's less than the sum of its parts imo), I'll always have a soft spot for Yata. Finally! Zenigata has someone else to talk to! That's very helpful, as far as fanfic writers are concerned. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are deeply appreciated.
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Chaos


	8. In Which the Penny is in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short chapter in which everything looks like it's going to go according to plan, for about five minutes.

**Chapter Seven, In Which the Penny is in the Air**

“Jigen, look! I already have two thousand followers!”

Lupin shoved his phone under Jigen’s nose, forcing his head backwards. Jigen scowled and pushed the phone away. “Yeah? And how many of them are Zenigata tracking your every move?”

“Tch. You know the only app Pops knows how to use is the weather app.”

Jigen watched Lupin flounce over to the hotel kitchenette. He propped his phone up against the microwave, hit record, and began to do that silly dance again. This attempt was no better than the previous ones.

Now, Jigen was not a man given to judging other people’s eccentricities. But he had been watching Lupin do this dance for a day and a half now, which was rapidly approaching a milestone in how long Lupin could make himself look like an idiot. A man had to draw the line somewhere, and the indignant “HEY!” that escaped Lupin when he swiped the phone was worth it. Jigen jumped backwards, holding the phone just out of Lupin’s reach.

“You’ve been on this silly thing all morning! When are you gonna focus, huh?!” He smashed his free hand into Lupin’s face as the master thief grappled forward, trying and failing to snatch his phone back.

“GIVE—THAT—BACK!”

“What was that? Slice it in half? Sure thing, boss!”

As if on cue, Goemon stepped forward and drew his blade. Jigen tossed the phone onto the bed, his free arm hooking around Lupin’s waist as he attempted to dive for the phone. They fell backwards into a crumbled heap, Jigen laughing and Lupin flailing, while Goemon readied his stance.

“NOOOO!”

BANG.

The bathroom door slammed open with full force. Fujiko’s glare stopped all three men dead in their tracks. She was half-dressed, her hair bundled up in a hotel towel, with make-up half-applied. A line of smeared mascara under her eye lent her the look of a woman unhinged. Under her fiery gaze the rest of the gang melted. Without a word she stuck her hand out. Goemon sheathed his sword before meekly placing the phone in her palm. Fujiko slipped it into her bra, spun on her heel, and went back to the bathroom mirror.

“Lupin…” her voice was sweet as honey and just as full of flies, “why don’t you take this time to outline your plan, before you begin broadcasting our location to every major crime boss within fifty miles?”

Lupin managed a sheepish smile. “Good idea, Fuji-cakes.”

“I’m full of them, sweetheart,” Fujiko replied. She pulled a makeup wipe from her beauty kit and began to apply her game face anew.

Lupin turned back to Jigen and Goemon, both of whom had folded their arms expectantly. He straightened up and rolled his shoulders back. “So Vatican security is pretty impressive. You’d think the Pope lived there or something!”

The joke dissipated into the cool conditioned air. Goemon arched an eyebrow.

“…all right, I see Humor has been locked out of the room for this meeting. Sheesh.” As he spoke he moved to a saddlebag on the floor, withdrawing a laptop and opening it. “Point is, this isn’t going to be a stroll through the park. Vatican Police was _very_ eager to show Inspector Pops all the ins and outs of their security. This thief will never get inside, they said, much less make off with an artifact.” He snorted as he typed, and then spun the laptop around to reveal a mockup model of the Vatican museums.

“So, first interesting bit, no weapons allowed. That includes the police, which on one hand makes things easier for us in the getaway. But on the other hand…” Lupin fixed Jigen and Goemon both with an expectant look.

“No,” Jigen said flatly. “

Goemon nodded. “Whatever plot you have in mind, I will not be parted with my weapon.”

“Yeah, I thought you two might object to that bit. So you’ll both be outside. Jigen—” He tapped the screen, and the roof of the Vatican palace glowed red “—here. And Goemon, you’re in the square. So _technically_ , neither of you will be bringing weapons _into_ the Museum. Satisfied?”

“Not really.” Jigen sank onto the bed, studying the Vatican diagram. “But I’ll take it.”

Lupin grinned before following another keystroke. A hundred little yellow lights glowed on the map. “Here are security cameras, most of them hidden. It would ruin the ambiance, y’know? On top of that, the palace is crawling with security guards, invisible lasers, alarms that trip if you so much as glance in the direction of a statue…all that good stuff.”

“Impressive,” Goemon said slowly. “How do we beat it?”

“We don’t!” Lupin replied cheerily. He tapped a few more commands, and now multiple corners of the map glowed red. “There are too many angles. Too many variables to try to control. The goal, then, isn’t to beat the system. The goal is to _confuse_ it.”

Fujiko had finished applying her makeup, and now leaned against the doorframe of the hotel bathroom, listening to Lupin with a slight smile. He caught her look and grinned before continuing: “They need to be running in circles, trying to find me—but they’re going to find too many mes!”

Jigen understood in an instant, and in the following instant a heavy sigh left him. “How many Lupins, exactly?”

“Five.” Lupin held up a hand to demonstrate the number.

“That’s four more Lupins than anyone needs to deal with,” Jigen replied. A small chuckle escaped Fujiko. “So I’ll be on the roof, Goe will be in the plaza, and we’ll both be making sure you look like an absolute fool. Where’re you and Fujiko?”

“Using that security badge we swiped from the guard yesterday, Fujiko will get inside as a cleaning lady, make her way to the main security hub before, and then start causing trouble as Lupin. Meanwhile, I will be playing the role of our favorite inspector, leading the Vatican police on a merry chase around their own building in search of Lupin, trying to figure out which Lupin is the _real_ one. And when Pops shows up—and you know he will—” A wicked grin spread the length of Lupin’s narrow face “—chaos ensues.”

Goemon ticked off his fingers. “Jigen on the roof, myself in the plaza, Fujiko and yourself inside. Where’s the fifth Lupin?”

Lupin dug a hand into his pocket and withdrew a nondescript USB stick. “Right here. Fujiko?”

Fujiko crossed the room and took the USB from him. “More footage of you dancing, I take it?”

“This time with a personal soundtrack,” Lupin replied. “So, between three physical Lupins, the one overloading their security system, and two Zenigatas showing up to shout at everyone, grabbing the little beastie might actually be the simplest part. Once we’re out of the Vatican we can reconvene here.”

Fujiko settled down beside Jigen on the bed, crossing one leg over the other as she did so. “And what about Renard?”

“What _about_ Renard?” Lupin frowned.

“Do you have a plan in case he shows up? We know he’s here, after all.”

A small crease appeared in Lupin’s brow; either he hadn’t thought about Renard, or he hadn’t wanted to give much thought to Renard. “He’ll have trouble keeping up with the multiple Lupins as well. Jigen, Goe, you two can keep an eye for him. If he shows up, I trust you two to keep him busy.”

“Non-fatally?” Jigen asked.

“Non-fatally,” Lupin said firmly. “This is a contest, not a death match.”

Jigen sighed once again and shrugged. “All right. I’ll do my best.”

“If—and that’s a pretty big if—he gets past you two, I’ll take care of him myself.” Lupin rolled his shoulders back.

“Non-fatally?” Fujiko asked.

“Non-fatally.” Lupin nodded. After a moment of reflection he shrugged. “Probably.”

**…**

It took another two hours to plan the Vatican heist, but when the last of the details ironed out there was nothing left to do except wait. Except that Lupin hated waiting, so all that was _really_ left to do was go find a bite to eat with Fujiko while Jigen and Goemon played tourist. Finding a bite to eat was the easy part (this was Rome, after all). Staring down the massive slice of Margherita pizza that proved more daunting.

Lupin gave his pizza slice an experimental poke. The heaping mozzarella cheese was generous to the point of charity. “They’ve gotten fancier since last time I was here.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about fancy before,” Fujiko pointed out.

“Not complaining. Just commenting.”

The two had elected for outdoor seating, giving them the warmth of the sun even under an umbrella. One of many market squares opened before them. Romans and tourists both went about their day in a hurry, some with groceries and some with backpacks, laughing and chatting and occasionally pausing to sniff the air. Fujiko watched the crowd, more interested in passersby than pizza.

Her eyes narrowed at a pair of teenagers who stared in their directions. They were craning their necks, jabbing each other in a subtle way, giggling as Lupin scooped up his pizza and yelped at the heat. One pulled out her phone and held it out to the other, who nodded and laughed.

“How many views does that video of yours have now?” Fujiko asked as she turned away from the giggling teens. Surely she had never been so vapid.

“A lot,” Lupin said, tearing at the gooey pizza with his teeth. “Why?”

“Because you’ve broadcast that darling face of yours worldwide. Zenigata could be behind the counter there now,” she nodded in the direction of the pizzeria, where a handful of harried chefs took orders and passed out pizza slices to the crowd. “Waiting to arrest you.”

Lupin gave the pizzeria employees a cursory once-over and snorted. “If anyone of them are Pops, I’ll eat my left shoe. And if Pops knows how to use an app like Dancr, I’ll eat _both_ my shoes.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Fujiko countered. She finally scooped up her own slice and took a small bite. “He’s got that kid with him now.”

“Yata,” Lupin scoffed. “Only ‘til he runs the kid ragged and he transfers to another department. Something nice and calm, like Narcotics. Then it’ll be Pops trying to figure out how to silence his company-issued phone during a movie.”

Fujiko gave him a long look. There was irritation in that look, yes, but a keen observer might have seen pity too. “Zenigata won’t be around forever,” she said.

For a moment Lupin didn’t seem to have heard her. He was continued to fight the piping-hot pizza on his plate, shaking his head back and forth like a dog with a bone.

“Lupin,” she said, with a touch more exasperation.

“Huh?”

“Zenigata isn’t going to be around forever.”

He stared at her, a bit of tomato sauce stuck to his upper lip. He stilled, thoughtful—and then laughed. “Of course he is! Pops will retire when I do.” He left the implication— _never_ —hanging in the air between them. He took another, smaller bite of pizza, chewing around it as he asked: “You think he’d let anyone else chase after me?”

“No,” Fujiko admitted. And then she added: “Unless that _someone_ had been handpicked and trained by Zenigata himself. He’s not getting any younger. If you’re starting to worry about wrinkles and bad backs, how do you think he feels?”

“The only wrinkles Pops should worry about are the ones in his shirts,” Lupin snapped. He dropped what remained of his pizza back onto his plate in sudden disgust. “I asked you to have lunch to _have lunch_ , Fujiko. Not to play twenty questions.”

His bottom lip jutted out in a pout and he looked away. His eyes found the pair of teenagers who had provoked the conversation before roaming further, over elderly women and leaping children, over a laughing middle-aged father who had a boy clinging to his back as they walked. His eyes found the young couples, bold and shy alike, holding hands in the crowd and pecking each other on the lips, sharing a gorgeous day in the sun. This was Rome, the Eternal City, were life and love flourished at all hours. Why was Fujiko—and hell, not just Fujiko, but Jigen and Goemon too—insisting on clouding the sheer amount of _life_ in front of them?

When Fujiko’s hand slipped over his he twitched, as though he’d been electrocuted. Lupin glanced back at her. Fujiko’s gaze had softened, more understanding than derisive or—worse—pitying. He let his hand fall open, allowing her fingers to slip between the gaps.

A small pause followed. And then Lupin sighed.

“There are only so many moments you get in a day, Fuji-cakes. Why waste your time lamenting that we can’t get them back? I’m here, with you, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, enjoying a delicious pizza—isn’t that enough? I don’t want think about how I’ll never get this moment again. I don’t want to spend my whole life thinking like that. It’s too sad.” His whole face fell. “Can you understand that?”

Fujiko studied his crestfallen expression. That was what she loved about him, what she had always loved about him, even when he made loving him impossible. Lupin had a true joie de vivre, a lust for living that made every moment more exciting than the last. His energy was like that of the sun overhead: burning, endlessly, unstoppable, with a warmth that cascaded over you. When they were younger, that energy had made him seem invincible, and in turn she had felt invincible too. Even now, the feats they were capable of made her heart race.

Even so…she was not the young girl she had been, anymore than Lupin was the bastion of endless youth. Impossible as it might have seemed ten years ago, Lupin’s joie de vivre had its limits. And eventually, it would run up against the ultimate hard limit of reality.

“I understand. I do.” She added the latter when Lupin gave her a doubtful look. “But sooner or later, you’re going to have to face the end of the moment.”

Lupin shook his head as he untangled his hand from hers. “The end of the moment is going to have to face _me_.”

**…**

Sweat congealed against Yata’s collar. He winced as the rivulets of sweat ran down his back, making his clothes cling to his skin. Heat rose off the Roman streets in lazy shimmers, and the wisest of folks had gathered under the awnings of pizzerias and gelaterias. No such luck for him as he trudged alongside Zenigata, trying not to feel like he was melting into the pavement in the meantime. He couldn’t help but to give one bustling gelateria a lingering glance as they passed.

Zenigata sighed and slowed to a halt. Despite his stoic demeanor, he was no better off than Yata: sweat stung at his eyes and seeped into his clothes. Even his hat wilted in this heat, forcing him to tilt the brim up if he wanted to look at Yata. The miserable look on his assistant’s face couldn’t be ignored.

Yata caught Zenigata staring at him and instantly straightened up. He settled his face into a hard neutrality, for all the world an international agent who was definitely not craving a cup of Stracciatella.

Zenigata shook his head ruefully before reaching for his wallet. “This is going on the expense sheet. In your name.”

“Yes, sir!” Yata accepted the cash with a barely-concealed grin. “What flavor do you like?”

“Dunno. Any flavor.”

Yata saluted him and dashed off to join the throng of gelateria customers. Funny, Zenigata thought to himself. _Now_ the boy could move. 

He stepped out of the flow of foot-traffic and leaned up against a building. He swiped his hat off and began to fan himself, cursing Lupin inwardly as he did so. The little bastard couldn’t have picked a more sensible time of year to visit Rome, _no_ , he had to come just when the weather turned against those in suits. Lupin was probably splashing around in some public pool right now, wearing a ridiculous floral-print suit and ogling the local women.

Zenigata pushed the image out of his head. With his free hand he reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. Yata had given him a crash-course on Dancr, and after a minute of scrolling through life hacks and challenge videos he found Lupin.

This video had been posted about twenty minutes ago, and was about a minute long. Zenigata withheld a sigh and clicked on the thumbnail.

“Hellooooo my golden followers! Are you enjoying this lovely day?”

Zenigata scowled down at the screen as Lupin continued to chatter away. He was using that tone he had, the most infuriating one, that made every simple sentence in a song. Zenigata could hear that damn tone in his sleep. Worse still, he wasn’t saying anything remotely interesting: just nattering on about his day so far and telling everyone to visit such-and-such pizzeria for the best margherita pizza they’d ever try.

As Lupin’s phone turned towards the pizza, though, Zenigata had to admit it looked pretty good.

He was about to start making notes on nearby pizzerias and if he could track Lupin down from there, when something heavy and solid collided with his side. Zenigata staggered, but the young man who’d crashed into him went sprawling to the pavement with a pained “ooph!”

Instantly Zenigata was beside him, helping him up even as he studied him. Young, lean, with red hair and sunscreen smeared across his freckled face. The young man was speaking halting Italian, apologizing for not looking where he was going.

Not Lupin, he decided in two beats. Even in disguise, Lupin’s stammered apologies in Italian would have been more fluid, more natural. Zenigata held up a hand to stop the tourist short before stepping aside.

“No harm done,” he said in English, a switch that made the tourist’s shoulders sink with relief. “Just be more mindful of your step.”

“Oh, yes,” said the redheaded, freckled-faced tourist. He grinned, as though something terribly funny had just occurred to him. “I will be _very_ mindful of where I’m going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re: Weapons in the Vatican is a bit of an odd case. The Vatican website is very adamant about no weapons allowed, even with police. On the other hand, Vatican police do carry weapons. For the sake of simplicity I decided on "no weapons INSIDE the Vatican". That's probably not accurate but, on the other hand, if any franchise is willing to forgive flubbing facts for a heist, it's Lupin III.
> 
> Speaking of heists, there's no way this one is going wrong! At all. Whatsoever.
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Chaos


	9. In Which the Penny Drops (And So Does the Beat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relatively longer chapter in which everything goes to hell, in about five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update time!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I've never robbed the Vatican. But then again, I'm (reasonably) sure you haven't either. While this plan in reality would have a snowball's chance in hell, Rule of Cool is in full effect.
> 
> Suggested listening for this chapter is "High Score" by Panda Eyes and Teminite. Or otherwise any high-energy music you enjoy dancing to. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are deeply appreciated!

**Chapter Eight: In Which the Penny Drops (And So Does the Beat)**

Saint Peter’s Square glowed faintly in the nighttime. Yellow and white light from the Vatican rippled over old, uneven stones. One might be forgiven for thinking the whole square had turned to liquid underfoot. The square had emptied of tourists hours ago, leaving the plaza silent save for the continual crash of a magnificent, many-layered fountain and the coos of nesting pigeons. The Vatican Palace towered overhead, adorned with thirteen statues who kept watch over the silent square.

Goemon sat against the fountain, his eyes locked on the thirteen statues. He wore a hat over his head and kept his sword against his hip: no clever costuming for him, which suited his needs just fine. With any luck—and no small amount of skill—they would be in and out in one piece. 

“It’s going to be very simple,” Lupin had said as he donned his disguise. It never failed to unnerve Goemon, hearing Lupin’s voice out of Zenigata’s mouth. “Once I convince them that I am the real Zenigata—won’t take that long, all I have to do is raise my voice a lot—I’ll lead them all into the security room, where they’ll see Jigen—who is me—on the rooftop. And once I convince them all that the dastardly Lupin is on the roof, Fujiko will activate the program on the USB and unmask herself as— _gasp_! Lupin! But which is the real one? Is he inside or outside?! Better split up and cover all the ground! Everything goes to hell in short order, while I sneak down the hall and liberate that poor stone beastie. Your job, Goe my boy,” Lupin had puffed out his chest then, “is to keep them busy out in the square. Just…try not to cut off any heads, huh? Catholicism has enough martyrs as it is.”

Goemon slid his thumb back and forth over the hilt of his blade. The plan was simple enough—for a Lupin definition of simple, anyway—but nevertheless his gut tightened with every minute that passed. Even given the late hour, it was too quiet. Nothing boded well in such silence.

He scanned the towering thirteen saints once more, relaxing only when he saw Jigen’s shadow passing between one statue and another. He was moving into position, which meant it was almost time to—

Goemon’s eyes narrowed sharply.

From his vantage point he could see a second, smaller shadow rappelling upwards towards the roof. The shadow was nimble and quick, and for a moment Goemon could only assume it was Lupin. But no, that wasn’t right, Lupin had entered in the Vatican ten minutes ago. And it couldn’t have been Fujiko either. Which left only…

Lupin had told him to wait in the plaza. But Lupin had also told him to be on guard for an interruption.

Goemon weighed his options, and then started as a run towards the Vatican Palace.

…

It was with much grumbling that Zenigata surrendered his weapon to the expectant Vatican Gendarmerie, before gesturing for Yata to do the same. “Apologies, Inspector,” said the guard as he placed their weapons in a security locker. “But it’s policy, you see. Holy ground and all.”

Zenigata grunted. As long as he had his handcuffs, he would make do. “Have there been any disturbances?”

“So far, no. We’re monitoring every part of the Museums as well as the grounds.”

Zenigata frowned. That was part of the problem right there. The bigger the heist, the more of an audience, the flashier Lupin got. The Vatican was crawling with guards and hidden cameras. If Lupin wanted in, the first thing he’d have to do is circumvent the security system. How to do that, though? The Vatican was too large, too complicated, and there were civilian areas besides. He couldn’t just cut the power and run amok as he chose.

His eyes narrowed in sudden thought. “Take me to the security hub immediately. Lupin has some scheme in the works, no doubt.”

They set off at a brisk pace through the darkened Vatican. In the dim light of hall lamps, the Holy See was almost sinister. Soft light threw shadows over statues and pillars, making their features harder and sharper. In the darkness, the spilled blood painted on the ceiling seemed a little too lifelike. Yata shivered, quickening his step to keep pace with Zenigata.

“What do you have in mind, sir?” Yata asked, slightly out-of-breath.

“Lupin needs to get through all this security, and he needs to do it all in one piece—what better way to do that than—”

The guard in front of them halted, forcing Zenigata to stop mid-sentence. A small crowd of police officers had gathered in a circle, muttering amongst each other with hands on their hips. When Zenigata attempted to force his way forward, one burly guard caught him by the shoulder.

Zenigata rounded on the guard with a scowl. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Inspector.” Another guard stepped up, flashing his badge in Zenigata’s direction. “My apologies, but we cannot be too cautious.”

The chief of the Vatican police was a broad-shouldered, balding man who gave Zenigata a run for his money in the bulldog department. He frowned at Zenigata and Yata. “Do you have an explanation for this?”

The crowd of guards parted, revealing _anothe_ r Zenigata, who stood blue in the face, bellowing at a hapless guard: “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS INTRUSION? DO YOU INTEND TO KEEP ME FROM MY RESPONSIBILITIES ALL NIGHT?!”

Zenigata sighed and turned to the stunned Yata. “What better way to circumvent security—than _this_.” He set his face into its trademark scowl, pivoted on his heel, and marched right up to the impostor Zenigata. “YOU!”

Impostor-Zenigata _also_ had a trademark scowl on his face as he faced the real-Zenigata. His hands clenched into fists. “YOU!”

The first Zenigata shook his head in disgust. “Chief, this man is an impostor! Lupin in disguise, it’s all part of his scheme! Take him into custody at once!”

“Don’t be absurd!” the second Zenigata countered. “Everyone knows Lupin doesn’t go anywhere without one of his cronies! _That_ one—” He pointed to Yata, who blinked in surprise “—is just a thief in disguise! Daisuke Jigen, perhaps!”

Yata paled as the entirety of the Gendarmerie turned their eyes on him.

Instantly the first Zenigata had the second by the lapels, yanking him close. “LEAVE YATA OUT OF THIS, YOU LITTLE—!”

The second Zenigata scoffed, unperturbed by the display of brute force. “My little _what_? Afraid I’ve gotten wise to all your tricks, _Lupin_?”

“Don’t listen to him! I’m the _real_ Zenigata!” said the very real Zenigata.

“If you’re the real Zenigata, what’s your favorite food?!” demanded the other, admittedly very good, Zenigata.

“ITS SOBA NOODLES, YOU IDIOT!”

“I—yes, actually, correct, well done—HURK!”

The real had hoisted the fake by those lapels, lifting him clean off his feet. “I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!”

“On holy ground?! Only a thief and a scoundrel would dare to—!”

The Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City (and Yata) watched the insults and accusations fly back and forth, gaze turning from one Zenigata to the other as their shouts began to reverberate off the walls and high ceiling:

“IMPOSTOR!” “LIAR!” “MONKEY-FACED BASTARD!”

When one of the Gendarmes glanced in his direction, Yata just shrugged.

…

Fujiko’s cleaning cart trundled along the hall undisturbed. A few Vatican guards nodded at her, their eyes glazing over her cart and face before turning back to their duties. Exceptionally foolish on their part, but not surprising. Over the years Fujiko had learned that few, if any, paid close attention to those seemingly beneath them.

Dressed modestly, with her hair covered by a shawl and eyes downcast, Fujiko certainly looked the part of just another member of a cleaning crew. The doctored security badge had ensured smooth sailing through security. She pushed her cleaning cart through back passages and sidedoors, all of which were decidedly less glamorous than the public parts of the palace.

It didn’t take long to find the main security sector. It looked, to Fujiko’s disappointment, like any other security hub: desks mounted with monitors, computers quietly humming away as hidden cameras flicked from sector to sector. Three Gendarmes stood around the monitors, drinking coffee and placing bets about something onscreen.

Fewer guards than she expected, in truth. Fujiko lifted her mop out of its bucket, surreptitiously looking at the monitors as she did so. Ah—there was the cause. Two Zenigatas, inches from each other, spraying spit as they bellowed about an impostor. Most of the guards had no doubt gone to check out the action. Fujiko lingered a moment longer, watching the monitors flick from museums to apartments to library. Gold and jewels and secrets aplenty here. What a pity Lupin had chosen such a little statue for his prize…

Oh, well. Next time. Fujiko turned back to the cart and undid the first button on her shirt. She dipped into the cart, making a show of hauling out a bucket of water. Her grunts and gasps of consternation got the attention of one guard, who smiled at her.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh…” Fujiko’s perfect doe eyes widened. Her knees buckled on cue, giving the young man a perfect view of her undone shirt. “It’s just so heavy. Could you help me?”

The young guard’s grin became a whole hell of a lot dopier. “Sure thing, miss—”

His hand closed around the handle of the bucket, and Fujiko’s fist collided with his nose. The guard went staggering back, yelping in pain. The other men twisted around, tensing for a fight—but by the time they had Fujiko had pulled a small stun gun from her undone bodice. Three sure shots, three men dropped.

Fujiko smiled as she tucked her stun gun away again. No guns, Lupin had instructed, and perhaps she had broken that instruction on a technicality. But there were times when practicality took precedent over some self-imposed challenge.

She stepped over one groaning guard, took his seat in front of the monitors, and checked her watch. They were running behind schedule. Lupin was supposed to have had Zenigata tossed into a cell by now, and Jigen should have been in position in front of the rooftop cameras. But Lupin was having entirely too much fun goading Zenigata onscreen.

Of Jigen, there was no sign.

_Typical_ , Fujiko thought as she pulled the USB out of her pocket. If she wanted to get things done, she’d have to do them herself.

…

A faint wind whipped through the air. For once, Jigen was glad he didn’t have his hat. Retrieving it would have been a pain in the ass from this height. He leaned up against a statue, waiting for the signal from Lupin to get into position. The latex Lupin mask he wore itched, and he reached up to scratch the artificial sideburns.

“So…which one are you, then?”

Jigen jumped and spun around, drawing his gun from its holster. A figure emerged from around the side of another statue. A tall man, lean, dressed in skin-tight black. A utility belt of gadgets hung from his thin waist, and a sabre rested against his left hip. He had a black hood pulled over his head. But the most striking thing about his appearance was the fox mask he wore over his face. Not a full mask, no, not like something a mascot wore—this was a simple mask, one that covered the front of his face, leaving only a part of his freckled chin exposed.

“Ah. The gunman,” Oliver Renard said as he pulled the mask away from his face. The wind rippled past them, making the ends of his red hair dance. He turned away, beaming out over their choice view of Saint Peter’s Square and Rome beyond it. “We’re quite a way’s up! Just look at this view of the city!”

Jigen didn’t give two shits about any precious view. Instead he looked at the mask Renard had shoved up onto his head. The theatrics made him snort. “You make that mask during arts and crafts?”

“You’re the very soul of wit,” Renard said as he turned to the business at hand. He cocked his head, seemingly surprised to see Jigen still had his gun trained on him. “Let me guess…rubber bullets?”

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d rather hope so,” Renard said. “A murder committed on the roof of the Vatican palace is…. _not_ a good look for the Lupin gang, is it?” He hopped down from the parapet he stood on. The tiles clacked under his booted feet as he approached Jigen.

The gunman watched him carefully. Non-fatal, Lupin had instructed him, but from this proximity even a rubber bullet would tear a kneecap to shreds. Even so he leveled his gun at Renard, tightening his finger on the trigger when Renard drew his sabre from its scabbard. “Put it away, boy,” he growled. “No statue is worth your life.”

“I’d like to make that decision for myself, thanks,” Renard said. He planted one hand against his waist. He and Jigen began to circle each other, each weapon aimed at the other man’s heart. All the while, Renard was smiling. “I must admit, this is terribly exciting. My first big heist and all that. Does he often get you into this guise?”

Jigen held his tongue. His eyes roved over Renard’s body, assessing him inch by inch. Non-fatal, Lupin said. Non-fatal. Couldn’t go for the head or the chest, and even taking out a kneecap—if he pitched sideways, toppled off the roof at this height—he took a step backwards as Renard stepped forward into his space.

He was still grinning widely, as though all of this was just a game to him. Perhaps it was, Jigen thought with a jolt. He’d seen that same grin on Lupin’s face in the middle of a heist.

“He sent you all the way up here to serve as a distraction, right?” Renard asked. He pulled his other hand away from his belt, revealing three little red squares between his fingers. Gun caps—the type used by little boys when they played soldier. “So let’s give them a distraction!”

The kneecap, Jigen decided, and in the split-second it took to make that call Renard’s gun caps exploded against the rooftop. The _RAT-TAT-TAT_ rang out in the silent night and sent little plumes of smoke into the air. The sound and smell of imitation gunfire instinctively had Jigen jerking backwards, even as he fired. His shot went wide, firing into the air above Renard’s head. Renard ducked and lunged forward, the point of his blade striking for Jigen’s chest—

_Shing!_

—And the front half of Renard’s blade went skittering away, landing at the feet of some saint. Renard straightened and frowned at Goemon, who stood between Jigen and Renard with Zantetsuken at the ready. “A worthless object,” he said. His eyes never left Renard’s face. “And a worthless swordsman.”

For a half a heartbeat Renard looked startled. Then he sighed and sheathed his broken blade. He planted his hands on his hips. “I rather liked the sword. So it’s true, then? That you’re the master samurai?”

“I am he,” Goemon replied. Jigen shot him a warning look as he readied his gun again.

“Well!” One of Renard’s hands drifted along his belt. “It’s a delight to see you both in action, really.”

“You talk too much,” Jigen snarled. He leveled his gun at Renard’s kneecap, Lupin’s orders be damned—

With a small click and a _hiss!_ Renard detached something from his belt, tossing it underhand at the pair. The smoking canister hit the roof with a clank and rolled to a stop in front of Goemon. Both Jigen and Goemon clapped hands to their noses and mouths, but as Goemon took a step forwards he staggered. The world spun in a lazy circle, and it felt as though the rooftop was falling far and fast away. Only Renard stayed steady, Renard who pulled that ridiculous fox mask over his face as smoke billowed around them. Goemon’s eyes widened. _Smoke—mask—have to tell Lupin—!_

Something heavy and suited collapsed against him. Goemon struggled forward still, even as the world went liquid, even as darkness fringed his vision. _Gas—mask—Lupin!_

“Enjoy your nap!” Said the Fox, who bounded to the edge of the rooftop. He pivoted back once to tap a finger to his forehead. “Ta-ta!”

Goemon gritted his teeth. His limbs were lead, his heart thundering in his chest, but he just needed to—

The Fox jumped off the edge of the world.

Everything went black.

…

Yata, along with the majority of Vatican City’s best, stared blankly at the two bellowing Zenigatas. He’d long since lost track of _his_ Zenigata in the ruckus. One currently had the other in a headlock, with the captive swearing black and blue about arresting Lupin once and for all. Yata had to hand it to Lupin: he really knew how to capture the essential essence of Inspector Zenigata.

A radio on someone’s hip crackled. The chief pressed a finger to his earpiece, and as Yata watched his already-dark expression went black. “All right!” he barked. “That’s enough! Grab these two clowns and throw them both in a cell to cool off!”

The chief’s command had both Zenigatas snapping to attention, their backs pressed together as they faced the encircling Vatican police.

“I have no intention of being jailed like a common thug!” one Zenigata said as he raised his fists.

“On that,” said the other, scowling, “we can agree.”

Yata, likewise, had no intention of letting his superior be tossed into a jail cell. He pushed forward through the throng and planted himself between the two Zenigatas. Both looked down at him: one in surprise, the other in fury. Yata, after a moment of consideration, edged towards the furious one.

“Listen to me!” he said to the chief. “I can prove which Zenigata is the correct one, please, just give me a chance to talk to them both!”

The radio crackled again, and this time the voice over the radio was shouting, something about—

“Gunfire?” said one Zenigata.

“On the roof?” said the other, the one Yata had stepped closer to. Instantly he rounded on the Zenigata next to him. “LUPIN! What did you DO?!”

While Yata felt absurdly proud for having chosen correctly, the impostor Zenigata cringed backwards. He scratched at the side of his face sheepishly. “Ah…” he said, in a voice higher and younger than Zenigata’s “Funny you should ask that…”

What, exactly, was funny about that particular statement Zenigata never found out. Nor did anyone else present. For at the exact moment Zenigata lurched forward to clap Lupin in handcuffs, the entirety of the Holy See exploded into a rave.

Booming, high-energy dance music flooded speakers throughout the Vatican; security lasers beamed a thousand different colors, and on each wall was a Lupin projected, dancing in time to the music. The Gendarmerie stared, dumbfounded, at the bursts of light and color swelling in the air around them. 

Zenigata alone was not distracted by the dancing Lupins who had overtaken a thousand years of culture. He rounded on the real thing with a fire in his eyes, reached forward, and yanked the latex mask off the impostor.

“ _LUPIN_!”

“Annnd I will take this as my cue to go.” The unmasked Lupin waggled his fingers. “Bye!”

He turned and sprinted off down the next corridor, ignoring Zenigata’s roar of fury behind him. This was not according to plan—Fujiko should have uploaded the override party program _after_ he’d gotten into the security office, so they could split the Gendarmerie between them—what had gone wrong? And why had there been gunfire on the roof?

No time for deep thinking now—he was in a full run, losing himself in the sudden chaos all around him. The thrumming of the song’s bass matched the staccato of his heartbeat, giving Lupin his own personal soundtrack as he ran. The shouts of the Gendarmerie were lost beneath the electronic music in his ears and the drumbeat in his chest.

Security lasers, once invisible, now flashed in purple and red and blue. Lupin dove into a slide, slipping underneath a group of lasers in front of one fresco. He popped up on the other side, taking a moment to look at the fresco in the glowing lights. The painted philosophers looked almost amused; this was probably the most fun they’d seen in over a thousand years.

Thundering footsteps sounded behind him. Lupin beamed as Zenigata and his small cohort of Gendarmerie rounded the corner. Zenigata stopped short of the lasers, but one Vatican guard was not so lucky—he tipped forward, crashing down amidst the lasers. Alarms wailed, adding to the cacophony around them.

Lupin clucked his tongue. Really, there was no need for _this_ much noise. He waved to Zenigata before taking off once more in the direction of the museums.

This— _this_ part was the most fun. All the plotting and scheming, sure, that was great. But when a plan went wrong, when it was down to how fast his mind could race and how far his legs could carry him…these were the moments of true exhilaration. These were the moments that proved _why_ he was Lupin the Third, the very best in the world. Everything around him dissolved into noise and light and tiled flooring. A high, excited laugh escaped Lupin.

He’d have to send a card to those teenagers, thanking them for the idea.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

A crowd of guards had appeared at the end of the hallway. Lupin laughed again—did they really think _that_ was going to stop him?

A wire shot out from Lupin’s sleeve, the sticky end propelled by a small mechanism to attach to the ceiling above. Lupin tugged at the line, nodded, and picked up speed. The guards lunged forward, and as they did Lupin tucked his legs up and leapt into the air, sailing over their heads through the hallway. The Gendarmerie gaped up at him as he soared through the air, both hands wrapped around the wire.

He landed, hard, on the other side of the corridor. He wound his grappling wire back into his sleeve and darted off again, sliding into another wing. He had crossed into the museums proper—from here it would be smooth sailing, surely—

Lupin collided with something muscular and solid, sending him sprawling onto the floor. He grimaced up at the Vatican guard standing over him, who had been clever enough to hide next to a statue. The guard grinned and cracked his knuckles. “End of the line.”

A polite tap on the shoulder had the guard turning—and staring at the Lupin standing just behind him. The new Lupin smiled brightly before ramming a leg into the guard’s groin. The guard wheezed, eyes bugging out of his head, and the real Lupin considered it a mercy when a punch to the face took him out cold.

“Ouch.” Lupin winced in sympathy before raising his eyes to his copycat savior.

“Now,” Fujiko panted as she tore off her Lupin mask, “we’re even for Zurich.”

Lupin sprang to his feet and planted his hands on his hips. “Oh, I don’t think so! What the hell is all this about!” He waved both arms around to the music and the flashing lights and the projected dancing Lupins…just in case Fujiko missed what _this_ meant.

In the face of his indignation she just shrugged. “Jigen never appeared on the feed, and when you didn’t bring the crowd in to watch the feed…I figured I had to get this party started somehow.”

“I got a little sidetracked with Pops!”

“You were having too much fun with Pops.”

Lupin ignored the jab, pressing a finger to his chin in thought. “Jigen never appeared?”

“No.”

It wasn’t like Jigen to miss a cue. Lupin allowed himself an ounce of worry before swallowing it. “Damn. Police were radioing in about gunfire on the roof.”

Fujiko gave him a level look. “Looks like your plan had a hole in it. Now what?”

“Jigen’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. And he’s got Goemon with him. We’re not leaving here without what we came for.”

“Time to improvise?”

“Well, that _is_ the best part of any given plan!”

Fujiko allowed herself a small smile and a shake of the head. She went to pull her Lupin mask back on, but a new sort of commotion made her pause. “Lupin…did you gas the place?”

“Nope.” Lupin’s answer was distracted, for he was taking the respite to wiggle out of Zenigata’s clothes. “Why?”

Thick smoke churned out of an adjacent rotunda, blue and green and purple by turn as it passed through the flashing security lights. Underneath the pounding music both thieves could hear coughing and gasping, and as they watched a lean, dark figure sprinted out of the rotunda, towards the Hall of Animals. Lupin’s eyes narrowed. “Renard.”

Fujiko jerked her head in Renard’s direction. “Go after him. I’ll take care of Zenigata.”

“You’re giving me permission to chase other men?” Lupin couldn’t help but to wink.

“You’re wasting time.” Fujiko gave him a rough shove in Renard’s direction. “Go!”

…

Zenigata yanked Yata out of the way as another canister of gas came clattering down the corridor. He pulled his coat over his nose and mouth, and Yata followed suit. Together they darted forward through the sudden thick plume, stumbling over downed Vatican guards as they did so.

Yata didn’t dare draw a breath until they had staggered into another, mercifully clear rotunda. He sank down in front of a Greek hero, gasping for breath. “Why is Lupin doing this?” he bellowed over the continual swell of music and alarms. “Isn’t the light show enough?!”

Zenigata had to ask himself the same question. Party lights _and_ knockout gas? Those were mixed messages. Why go through all the trouble of setting up giant projections of yourself only to knock people out? Even for Lupin, that didn’t make sense. Mixed messages, mixed signals, almost as though this were the work of two separate people…

Zenigata turned back to his wheezing assistant. “It’s not Lupin.”

“Sir?”

“It’s not Lupin. I’m going that way.” He pointed back down the corridor they had just escaped from. “You’re in charge of tailing Lupin.”

Yata’s expression hardened as he saluted his superior. “Yes, sir!”

Zenigata nodded before hiking his shirt over his nose and mouth. If another thief thought he was going to steal Lupin’s thunder _that_ easily, he had another thing coming.

…

The masked figure skidded to a halt when Lupin stepped in front of him, arms pinwheeling wildly to keep himself upright. He ripped his mask away, revealing a sweaty and gasping Renard behind the fox. He grinned that cheeky grin of his. “How am I doing?”

“Not bad, for a first-timer!” Lupin said. He strolled forward, more at ease now that Pops and the Gendarmerie were far behind them.

Renard chuckled. His stance, too, had relaxed. “What makes you think this is my first time?”

“Knockout gas? A tad cliché, Renard. But we all start somewhere.” Lupin swept a hand out. The Hall of Animals was just down a long stretch of hallway. All that was left to do was cross it. “After you, then.”

“Oh, no. You first, by all means.”

As he spoke Renard shifted his stance, folding one arm behind him and putting most of his weight on his back foot. A fencing stance, Lupin noted. He was at the ready; waiting like a sabreur might for his opponent’s attacking move, so that he may riposte.

Lupin wasn’t going to give him the chance. “All right, if you say so!”

He took off at a breakneck pace, long legs carrying him far and fast across the tiled floor. Behind him he could hear Renard’s quick footfalls, close and growing closer. A small click and a telltale _hiss_ followed, and Lupin leapt into the air as the gas canister rolled under his feet. Knockout gas bloomed in the corridor ahead, forcing Lupin to slow his pace. He could hold his breath as he ran through it. Or…

Or he could wait for the now-masked Renard to dart by him, headlong and fearless into the smoke. Lupin gave him two steps ahead. Enough to make him feel confident.

Then Lupin twisted, hands hitting the floor, legs turning over each other as though he were breakdancing in time to the music. The spool of tripwire he’d attached to the heel of his shoe shot out, wrapped itself around Renard’s legs in time with Lupin’s movement. Renard hit the floor with a pained yelp.

Lupin got to his feet, scraping his heel against the floor to detach the used wire. He stepped up to Renard and grinned down at the panting young thief. “I usually have to reserve that for Pops. Ah well…what’s that phrase you told me? The first shot, the winner? Better get used to coming in second, Lord Renard!”

Renard’s only reply was a grunt. One hand yanked at the trip wire around his ankles; the other had gone to his waistline, fishing for something there.

“Now, now, more knockout gas isn’t going to help you,” Lupin chided. “I suggest you stay there and wait for Pops to collect you. Maybe the Pope will give you a pardon for giving him such a good show.”

With a flick of his wrist the sticky wire went flying out once more, attaching to the ceiling above. Lupin gave it a testing tug and took off at a running start. Then he was in the air once more, high over the cloud of knockout gas, within feet of the Hall of Animals, within feet of his prize.

The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder, dangerously close to Lupin’s head.

_Jigen? No—what—?!_

And in the next instant the plaster above his sticky wire was cracking, splintered into fifty pieces by a bullet. Suddenly Lupin was falling through the open air, his own wire tangling around him as he plummeted. The floor came rushing up to meet him. Lupin had sense enough to tuck himself into a ball, arms folded over his head—

Flesh met floor in a wave of breathtaking pain. Lupin’s momentum sent him tumbling ass over end, tricks and trinkets spilling out of his pockets or otherwise cracking beneath his own weight. Over and over he went, arms wrapped around his head, until at last he rolled to a stop.

_Cheated_.

The word floated vaguely in front of his mind, if only because nothing else would. Cheated, Renard had _cheated_ , no guns were allowed in the Holy See…but those were his rules, his restrictions, not Renard’s. Not that it mattered now. He had to sit up, he had to keep moving, even though every inch of his body screamed in protest. He gritted his teeth, swallowed the coppery blood filling his mouth, and wrenched his eyes open.

Renard stood over him with revolver in hand. Colorful lights danced over his dark clothes and threw him into sharp relief, making Lupin’s eyes water. He holstered his gun before lifting his mask, revealing that goddamn grin. In his other hand he held a statue of a small, curious-looking little beastie.

_No_ , Lupin thought. No, no, _no_. He planted one shaking arm on the floor, outstretched the other towards Renard. The blood in his mouth tasted coppery. “You little weasel—!” He collapsed again, his outstretched hand falling limply to the floor.

Renard glanced down at his outstretched hand. For a moment he looked contemplative. Then he lifted his heavy-tread boot. “Sorry about this, old boy.”

The _crack!_ of breaking bones rang in Lupin’s ears, louder than the thrumming music all around them. Lupin might have screamed. He might not have. He wasn’t sure; all he knew, suddenly, was hot, and pain, and hate.

When he came to, he had curled into a ball again, clutching his right hand with his left. Three fingers throbbed, and when he tried to bend them a slice of pain ran right up his arm.

Of Renard, there was no sign. Still holding his right hand, Lupin sat up and leaned against the statue of the mighty hunter. Lights flashed and music boomed and alarms blared; every inch of his body ached, while a deep pain had settled into his right hand. But to Lupin, it all felt very very far away. Insignificant, almost, compared to the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Something, somewhere, had just gone terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti*


	10. In Which There Is Sudden (But Inevitable) Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life puts on a pair of steel-toed boots and kicks Lupin while he's down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative summary for this chapter is "The writer shoos Jokes out of the room for twenty minutes". Fear not! Jokes will be back soon.
> 
> As always, thanks to Bel for her beta work, and comments/kudos are always appreciated. :)

**Chapter Nine, In Which There Is Sudden (But Inevitable) Betrayal**

“Jigen! Jigen, wake up! JIGEN—!”

Reality served Jigen a pounding head and complimentary fuzz on his tongue. He snapped his eyes open to stare at the pale Goemon. The samurai held the latex Lupin mask in one hand.

“What—?”

“Renard,” Goemon answered grimly. “We were not prepared in the way we should have been.”

The image of the smug, freckle-faced bastard flashed before Jigen’s eyes. He sat up, so fast he nearly knocked heads with Goemon. Big mistake—his head swam with dizziness as much as fury. “I’m going to kill him!”

Goemon took his shoulder to steady him. “Not if I get there first. But revenge must wait for the moment.”

Jigen got to his feet with a groan. Multicolored lights and music poured out of the Vatican beneath them. More pressing, however, were the flashes of red and blue barreling towards Saint Peter’s Square. Wailing police sirens broke the pounding beat of the music. Jigen scowled. “Where’s Lupin?”

“I have no idea. We’ll have to regroup.” Goemon stepped up to the edge of the roof before turning back to Jigen. “Can you move?”

“Yeah.” Jigen nodded, even though the action made the world turn in circles. The job had gone wrong, like so many other jobs did. There was nothing left to do but reconvene and decompress. It was a damn shame, though. Truth be told, he’d been looking forward to this job. The plan had been a solid one, with textbook Lupin gang flair…

He stopped short, frowning as a snatch of conversation came back to him.

Goemon saw the look. “What’s wrong?”

“Renard asked which one I was.” He looked to the mask in Goemon’s hand, struggling to connect the dots through his pounding head. He was suddenly desperate for a cigarette. “He knew. Renard knew there’d be multiple Lupins. Someone told him the plan.”

Goemon’s expression darkened. “Someone always does.”

…

Someone in the Vatican must have had the brains to reboot the whole system, because Zenigata was halfway down a corridor when everything went dark. He stopped short; a second later, the lamps flicked on again. Everything was surreally silent. In the absence of noise and light, the Vatican felt almost dead, more like a crypt than a palace.

Zenigata shook off the feeling and continued. In the half-light, he could see the signs of a thief’s work: wisps of lingering gas, a smattering of plaster on the floor. The latter made him pause. He looked up, studying the bullet hole in the ceiling above. Strange. That wasn’t like Lupin, and the shot seemed too haphazard for Jigen. There were no obvious hazards here, no guards, nothing worth firing at. It had been a panicked shot, Zenigata decided. The work of a desperate man trying to do something. What, though?

He found his answer as he turned the corner into the Hall of Animals.

Lupin sat against the base of one large statue, staring down at his hands. 

“LUPIN!”

The thief lifted his head the shout. Otherwise he didn’t move. That wasn’t like him either. Zenigata crossed to him in three long strides, grabbing Lupin by the arm and hauling him to his feet. Pain flashed across Lupin’s face, but Zenigata forced himself to focus on indignation rather than concern.

“You’ve really done it this time!” he bellowed, hoping the shout would knock some life back into his adversary. “Where is it?!”

The question roused Lupin out of his stupor. He scowled and yanked himself out of Zenigata’s grasp. “I didn’t steal anything, Pops!”

“Like hell you didn’t! Where is it?”

Lupin’s features contorted in a rare fury. A pained noise escaped him as he went to clench his fists. “I don’t have anything! It’s not me!”

“If you really think I’m going to fall for that—!”

“IT’S NOT ME!”

The shout, full of rage and pain, sent Zenigata a full step backwards. Lupin stared up at him with fiery eyes and a heaving chest. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a gash on his forehead. Zenigata glanced down, brow furrowing when he saw three red, swelling fingers on Lupin’s right hand. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very wrong.

Zenigata took a steadying breath. Lupin continued to glare up at him. Silence fell between them; only the scream of distant sirens told Zenigata they weren’t alone in the world.

“All right,” he said at last. “Who was it?”

Something a little like relief flashed through Lupin’s eyes. Then fury and outrage overtook it, and Lupin turned away with a scowl. “Olive Renard—oh, sorry, _Lord_ Oliver Renard _the Second_ —the two-faced smug little carrottop—when I get my hands on that slimy bastard I’m going to—”

A strong hand on his shoulder stopped his rant before it could get creative. He didn’t resist when Zenigata spun him around again. “Lord Oliver Renard the Second,” the Inspector repeated.

Lupin’s throat closed over. His fingers felt hot and heavy, thick almost, as though they’d been replaced by street-cart sausages. It was an effort not to flex them. They were _broken_ , broken by Renard, the vicious little bastard, who hadn’t even hesitated! Bile rose in his narrowed throat. The only thing keeping him even remotely grounded was Zenigata’s hand on his shoulder.

“Oliver Renard,” Lupin confirmed. “You better find him before I do, Pops.”

Zenigata had rarely seen Lupin in such a state. This wasn’t his Lupin, this wasn’t his cheeky ne’er-do-well who had a gold medal in shrugging off setbacks. It was with a great amount of reluctance that he reached for the handcuffs.

The sight of the handcuffs finally made Lupin smile. “Are we really doing this?”

“You _did_ break into the Vatican. And impersonated an officer of the law to do so.” Zenigata arched an eyebrow.

Lupin had to laugh. It felt strange, in that moment, to laugh. But good, too. It made him feel more like himself. “Yeah, but…I did it with style, huh?” He stepped to the side as Zenigata went to click the cuffs around his wrist. “Sorry, Pops. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a thief to catch. Hey! That kinda makes me sound like you, huh?”

He vanished in a puff of smoke. Zenigata, feeling oddly resigned, did not follow.

Hours later—after the witnesses had been spoken to, after the evidence had been collected, the media placated and the first reports written—Zenigata sat down heavily on the stone steps of the Vatican. The first blue strokes of dawn had appeared on the city’s horizon. He’d been awake for hours, and the cigarette he lit up was hardly an anodyne. Still, he was grateful for the respite.

_Temporary_ respite. Zenigata felt, rather than saw, Yata slinking up to him. His assistant sank down next to him with a despondent expression. “I couldn’t catch Lupin. I’m sorry.”

Zenigata chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Just get used to the feeling.”

Yata made a face. Clearly he was not interested in getting used to the feeling. “Now what?”

Smoke billowed out of Zenigata’s mouth. He watched it rise into the pre-dawn sky before dissipating. Two MOs. Two thieves. Lupin’s broken fingers, trembling even as he tried not to move them. That would be impossible for him, Zenigata knew. Lupin’s fingers were a true thief’s fingers: always twitching, always moving, sneaking into pockets that weren’t his. It would be weeks before he could move them again, the way he was meant to.

“Now,” Zenigata said as he crushed his spent cigarette against the stone, “I want you to find me all available information on Oliver Renard the Second.”

…

“Hold still, you big baby!”

“OW—OW—OW—OW—YEEOUCH!”

Goemon grabbed Lupin around the middle as he squirmed. He and Jigen both grimaced when another pained caterwaul reverberated through the hotel room. Lupin slammed his head against Goemon’s shoulder, breathing hard and fast through his nose. Lupin was no stranger to pain: he’d been stabbed and shot and pierced more times than he could count. But Jigen gingerly sliding his ring finger into a split was its own special agony. He screwed his eyes shut as Jigen bound his ring finger to his already-splinted pointer and middle finger with medical tape.

By the time Jigen finished, Lupin was drenched in sweat and had exhausted every swear word in every language he knew. He glared down at his immobilized fingers. Jigen, likewise covered in sweat, collapsed back against the bed. “You’re lucky those were clean breaks.”

Lupin grunted. “Lucky, sure.”

“You walked away,” Goemon said. He relinquished his grip on Lupin. “Many would consider that luck enough.”

Lupin was not in the mood for any homegrown wisdom. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth. Each step sent a thrill of residual pain up one leg, but Lupin forced himself to ignore it. “He didn’t even hesitate.”

“Did you expect him to?”

“Most rookies do. They’re not ready to do what it takes to win. Even if they think they are.”

“Perhaps his sport taught him better,” Goemon suggested. He settled down beside Jigen and drew his legs together.

“Maybe.” Lupin strode to the window. Past his own reflection he could see the sun rising over the city. He’d been going for hours now on pure adrenaline, and now that too had abandoned him. Between exhaustion and pain, it was an effort just to keep his thoughts in order. “There’s a difference between fencing in a championship and shooting a gun in the Vatican! Where’d he get all those nifty toys, anyway? The kid’s got a degree in economics, he can’t be _that_ smart.”

Jigen tugged at his beard in thought. “There’s a lead to follow. Every purchase leaves a trail. You wanna start there, Lupin?” When Lupin didn’t answer, he tilted his hat up onto his head. “Lupin!”

Lupin wrenched his gaze from the window. “Hm?”

Jigen shook his head and pulled his hat down again. “What do you want to do now?”

“Easy. We find out where Renard is and we take back our prize.”

“Is that not cheating?” Goemon frowned.

“Maybe. But if he thinks he can get away with this—” He held up his broken fingers “—he’s got another thing coming.”

Goemon and Jigen stared at the splint before exchanging a look. “He did go and make this personal,” Jigen said, while Goemon nodded. “Just make sure we get a swing at him too, huh?”

Lupin smiled grimly before moving to yank off his tie. The smile became oddly fixed when his swollen fingertips brushed against the fabric. He lowered his right hand again, and was grateful when both friends pretended not to notice. He dug into the knot with his left hand. “We should get some sleep, though. No point in plotting revenge if you can’t keep your eyes open—”

“Lupin.”

Goemon’s soft tone stopped him short. He folded both arms over his chest. “There is one more matter to discuss.”

Lupin looked between Goemon’s stoic expression and Jigen’s barely-suppressed scowl. “Oh?” he said, all innocence. As though he didn’t already know the source of their displeasure. As though he hadn’t already noticed which member of the gang hadn’t made it back.

“Renard knew to look for multiple Lupins. He knew I’d be on the roof.” Jigen sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Who told him that, I wonder?”

Lupin’s heartbeat quickened. The blood in his body seemed to tingle, all the way down to his fingers. “Maybe it was just a lucky guess—”

“Lupin,” said Goemon, exasperated. “Where’s Fujiko?”

…

Like Renard before her, Fujiko stopped short when Lupin stepped into her path.

The car garage fell silent as her trundling suitcase came to a stop. It was empty, save for the two of them and rows of parked cars. For a long minute Lupin and Fujiko just stared at each other. Neither was sure of what they were looking for. Only that it was something they had found and lost a thousand times over.

“How much did he offer you?” Lupin said at last, in a low voice.

“More than you did.” Fujiko shrugged. “And I made off with a few prizes of my own.”

She reached into the jacket she wore and pulled out an ancient-looking book. Lupin knew the sort: full of secrets both dark and fantastic. People would pay millions for a simple little book like that. She winked as she tucked it away again.

Lupin continued to look at her, oddly tired. “Before or after I called you?”

“Before,” she said. “Renard is very thorough in his research.”

“ _Thorough_ is a word for what he is, sure.”

She winced at that, glancing down at the splint on his hand. For a moment she looked remorseful. “I’m sorry about that.” Then she recovered, at least enough to smile. “It’s never a sure thing, when thieves deal with thieves.”

“Yeah.” Lupin stepped to the side, tacitly allowed her to pass. “You’d think I would have learned that by now.”

His curt reply made Fujiko sigh. She set her suitcase aside, stepping up to him and taking his chin in her hand. She lifted it gently, so that their eyes could meet. “Chin up, tiger. The odds are still in your favor.”

Once the touch alone would have melted him into the pavement. As it stood, he could still feel a tingle of warmth, spreading from his face to the rest of his body. Why should he be so bitter? He had to have known it would happen, deep down. Because it always did. One or the other always took their prize and left. But their mutual betrayals were never for forever. They always found their way back eventually. Treasure or excitement or warmth, whatever the reason, they found their way back.

Lupin managed a wan smile as he stepped back. “Be careful out there, Fuji-cakes.”

“If there’s one thing I am, darling—” She grabbed her suitcase and continued down the parking garage, throwing her response over her shoulder as she went: “It’s careful.”

…

Lupin didn’t dream, and that’s how he knew he was dreaming. It must have been the pain, or the ibuprofen he’d taken for the pain, or some combination thereof, because he didn’t dream. Neither was he terribly impressed by dreams. They were only your subconscious sieving through the leftovers of the day. Maybe that’s why he never dreamed: his mind was so active it never left his subconscious anything to do.

At any rate, here he sat in a dull gray room, all by himself. He looked left and right. Nothing there, save more unadorned gray walls. He was reminded, not without cause, of most prisons he’d been in. The chair he sat on was comfy, though, and the clothes were his own.

A window appeared on the wall in front of him. Not a prison window with bars, an actually-actual window, the type you’d see in a cozy home. Weird, all right, but whatever his mind wanted him to see out that window must have been important. Lupin, not wanting to deny his mind all the very hard work it was doing, leaned forward.

The world outside looked like everywhere he’d known and nowhere he’d known all at the same time. The bizarre geography was something out a children’s drawing. All at once he saw rolling green hills and yellow lowlands, a great blue river and a rainbow of wildflowers. Cherry trees bloomed amid towering gray cityscapes. In the far distance he saw a looming mountain range, with a winding country road right through the middle.

There were people too, people from all over, people who looked a little bit like everyone he’d ever met, without actually being any of them. In the passersby he saw Goemon’s dark hair and Jigen’s slouching stride, Fujiko’s warm smile and Zenigata’s piercing eyes. A couple strolled by arm-in-arm, passing a young woman walking her dog. A gang of young men stood around smoking cigarettes. Two kids ran beneath the window, laughing and kicking a ball around. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the perfect sort of day for making good mischief.

Lupin wanted nothing more than to join them. He planted his hands on the arms of the chair, hoisting himself up—and a searing shock of pain went through both legs. Instantly he collapsed down again. Odd. There were no restraints on his ankles. Nothing suggested this was an electric chair of sorts.

Lupin looked down, startled to see a faded afghan tossed over his lap. He put a hand to one knee; beneath the blanket it felt huge and swollen, as though the joint had been replaced by a melon. He wrenched his gaze back up to the window. He was suddenly desperate to join the people out there, the people who looked like the people he loved, the people who laughed and talked and lived in a world far more interesting than this gray box.

Whispers cut through the silence around him. There were people talking, just out of sight:

“Who’s that fellow there?”

“Oh, him. He’s one of our long-term residents. Doesn’t talk much, but supposedly he was a famous criminal years ago.”

“Really? And you just let him live here?”

“Well, he’s not much of a menace to folks nowadays, is he? Best to let him live out his days peacefully.”

_Peacefully, my ass!_ Lupin wanted to scream, but for some reason the words never left his chest.

“What’s his name?”

“Lou…something or other. I don’t know, I’d have to check his file.”

_It’s Lupin!_ With a tremendous amount of effort, Lupin forced himself from the chair, stumbling to the window despite the pain. 

The hands that grabbed the window frame were old and spotted, wrinkled chicken talons for fingers, bent with age. Horrified, Lupin pulled his hands back—but not before catching a glimpse of a wizened old man in the window’s reflection.

“NO!”

Lupin catapulted upright in bed. His chest heaved, struggling to breathe, the air in his lungs so hot it was almost sour. His left hand curled around his bedsheets.

It had been a dream, just a stupid dream, that was all. He was here, in a Roman hotel, with Jigen and Goemon passed out in the bed next to his. The curtains had been pulled over the windows. Sunlight spilled through the cracks, as did the sound of a midday city. They had agreed to get some rest before planning their next move.

Lupin had had enough rest for a lifetime. He pulled the covers back and swung his legs out. The action was easy, he noted. Of course it was, when your legs weren’t swollen with gout. He shook his head to clear the thought. It had been a dream, nothing more, and the next time Jigen offered him painkillers he was going to refuse.

Jigen stirred in the bed beside his. “You okay?”

“Fine. Bad dream.”

Jigen lifted his hat off his head at the curt response. His eyes followed Lupin as he crossed to the bathroom. He waited until Lupin was on the threshold to speak: “You don’t dream.”

“I know,” Lupin muttered.

He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He didn’t reach for the light switch just yet; he was content to let the darkness swallow him whole. It was quiet here in the dark. No intrusions. No children laughing. No window into a world he couldn’t reach anymore. He lifted his hands to his face. He couldn’t see them in the pitch-black, although he could still feel a dull ache in his right hand.

He tried to picture his hands as he’d seen them in his dream. Shriveled, liver-spotted hands. Weak hands. Hands that couldn’t hold a lockpick or slip from a pair of cuffs. Not his hands. _Never_ his hands.

Lupin had known old folks. Some of them were most malicious bastards he’d ever had the displeasure of crossing. They had been full of rage for incidents years past. Most, though…most had just been tired. World-weary. Quietly accepting of whatever happened next, in this world or the other. He’d never be one of them. He couldn’t be.

Lupin thought of the quiet, empty room, and the little window into a world beyond it. Bile rushed into his throat. He staggered to the wall, fumbling for the lights.

In the white light of a hotel bathroom, his hands looked as they always did (save for the splint, of course). A little hairy, but with smooth skin and neatly-trimmed nails. Just the same as usual. Just the same as always.

When he turned to the mirror, the man looking at him was someone he knew. Lupin leaned in, close enough for the tip of his nose to touch the glass. His skin was still smooth. His sideburns were still full and dark. His eyes were alert, searching. There was nothing about his immediate appearance that suggested age, that suggested _weakness_ …or weakening. Tentatively, almost afraid of what he would find, Lupin combed his left hand through his hair.

Another gray hair shone silver in the bathroom light.

Lupin froze in place. He stared at the man in the mirror, dumbfounded. That man had silver in his hair. That was a stranger staring back him. A stranger who aged like everyone else.

Lupin’s throat closed over. His good hand clenched into a fist. For an instant he wanted nothing more than to the punch the mirror and shatter that stranger into a million pieces. Only the ache in his right hand held him back.

The quick rap of knuckles on the bathroom door knocked him out of his reverie. Jigen didn’t wait for an answer before opening the door. He stood hatless in the threshold, blinking owlishly at the silent Lupin.

“Lupin.” Jigen cleared his throat. There was a dark look in Lupin’s eyes, but he didn’t know how to give the assurance Lupin needed, if Lupin wanted assurance at all. Instead he nodded to the beds. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah. I’m coming.”

Lupin turned off the light and went back to bed.


	11. In Which A False Flag Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overconfidence, as they say, is a slow and insidious killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Belphegor for her beta work!

**Chapter Ten, In Which A False Flag Flies**

Zenigata had the good sense to wait until they were in the elevator to speak: “You’re going to take the lead on this one.”

As he expected, Yata’s head snapped to him so fast he almost heard a _crack_. His assistant went the color of sour milk. “Sir? I—take the lead? Why?”

Zenigata’s eyes were on the button pad, watching the numbers steadily climb. “Renard is around your age. He’ll be more at ease if you’re doing the talking, instead of Inspector Zenigata, well-known lead on the Lupin case.”

“But…”

“We’re followed up on an anonymous tip, Yata,” Zenigata said sharply. “Renard has nothing to fear from us. You _must_ make him believe that.”

Yata nodded, although misery camped on his face as though it were the Swiss Alps. “Why did you wait until _now_ to tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you throwing up in the car.”

Yata huffed. The noise was lost under the soft woosh of the climbing elevator. Oliver Renard had rented a penthouse apartment in Rome, well above ground level. Renard had rented two whole levels to himself: one for living, and the other for hosting parties. The location struck Zenigata as amateurish for a thief. Childish, almost. Something that said, “look at me, look at me, I’m on top of the world!”. Such arrogance was usually their undoing.

Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Lupin. Lupin would never consent to a penthouse apartment—let along two—without some means of escape. Be it a dumbwaiter or a personal helicopter, Lupin preferred multiple ins and outs for whenever trouble inevitable found him. His hideouts were modest, oftentimes remote, but generally cozy as well. What’s more, Lupin didn’t just bide his time in his hideouts. In countless busts Zenigata had found evidence of card games and magazines and televisions tuned to the latest football matches. Lupin didn’t just hide; even in the shadows Lupin _lived_.

In the pale gloom of the Vatican, blood had trickled down the side of Lupin’s lean face. Whatever he was doing, wherever he was living, Zenigata inwardly hoped it was far away from here.

The _ding_ of the elevator knocked him out of his reverie. The elevator finished its ascent, doors sliding open into a huge, warmly-lit hallway. As they spilled out onto the plush carpet, Yata still looked a bit queasy. Zenigata gave him a look. “You would not be here if you could not do this.”

The assurance, such as it was, had Yata rolling his shoulders back. Zenigata had to bite back a smile; surely he’d never been in such need of validation. He walked slowly, allowing Yata to take the lead with long, loping strides not unlike his superior’s. He paused only a moment to sum up his courage, and then knocked on the penthouse door.

“Just a minute!” came a shout from behind the door. Quick footsteps sounded, followed by the click of a lock being undone. The door opened a crack, revealing a freckled face. “Sorry, how much do I owe…oh. You’re not the pastry guy.”

“Lord Renard?”

It startled Yata, really, how confident he sounded in his own ears. He resisted the urge to glance in Zenigata’s direction. Instead he pulled out his badge, flashed it in front of the befuddled Renard. “Agent Yatagarasu of ICPO. This is Inspector Zenigata,” he indicated the Inspector, who held up his own badge. “Do you have time to talk?”

“Erm—sure—let me just—” He yanked the door fully open, so that Yata could get his first good look. Zenigata had been right about them being of an age, though Renard was taller, and lean where Yata was skinny. In contrast to Yata’s crisp suit, Renard’s style was causal chic: a pair of tan slacks, a red blazer over a dark tee-shirt with the name of a band emblazoned on it. He brushed his dark red hair out of his eyes nervously. “Is something wrong?”

“Let’s discuss this inside,” Yata replied, letting himself sound soothing.

“Sure. My boyfriend is here, should I call him down too?”

“That would be appreciated.”

Renard nodded and stepped back to let them in. At the same time he shouted: “DOMAS!”

“WHAT?” came a reply from somewhere above their heads.

“COMPANY!”

A smattering of grumbles served as a reply. Renard smiled sheepishly. “Come in, come in. Um, can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Yata. Zenigata just grunted.

Renard led them through a spacious, well-lit penthouse, out to a rooftop terrace. The terrace was a sunny, open spot, with wicker furniture designed for omelets in the morning and cocktail parties in the evening. Well-tended flowers bloomed in bursts of red and purple, complementing the plush cushions he and Zenigata sat down on. Renard settled across from them with a cappuccino in his hands. The air around him was one of nervous energy, eyes flicking back and forth between Interpol agents.

“Let’s get to the heart of the matter,” Yata said. He waited for Renard to take a sip of coffee before continuing: “Are you aware of the incident that occurred at the Vatican early yesterday morning?”

“Who hasn’t? It’s all over the news.” Renard nodded to his phone, on the table between them. He frowned. “What, um, what does this have to do with me?”

Yata settled back and lifted his chin. The change in stance earned a discreet nod from Zenigata, giving him the confidence to continue: “We received an anonymous tip that you were present at the Vatican during the incident.”

He watched the way Renard blanched, the confusion giving way to fear. He set his cappuccino down with trembling hands. “I—what? No, not, that’s not right—there must be some mistake, surely—!”

“Where were you between the hours of ten at night and two in the morning?” Yata asked, keeping his tone mild. Beside him, Zenigata pulled a notebook and a pen from an inner pocket.

Renard spluttered. “I—you can’t seriously believe—!”

“You are not being accused of anything, Lord Renard. We’re simply following through on a line of inquiry.” Yata let his face relax a little, smiled at Renard. They were just a couple of guys trying to do their jobs, that was all.

Renard met his gaze. His face had drawn in anxiousness. “Am I in trouble?”

“We just need whatever information you can provide us.”

To that, Renard went as red as his hair. He lowered his eyes to the cappuccino on the table. “I was out early yesterday morning…” He mumbled the name of the club, which Zenigata dutifully jotted down. Yata didn’t have to ask what kind of club it was: Renard’s deep blush told him well enough.

“Can anyone place you there?”

“Well, I paid cash to get in, but I was with—Domas!”

The door to the terrace opened and shut. Yata and Zenigata turned to see another tousle-haired young man standing there. He was of a height with Renard, more broad-shouldered and muscular. He was dark-haired where Renard was fair and sported a trimmed beard. Unlike Renard’s classy-causal look, he looked ready for a night at a concert: black sleeveless tank (advertising the same band Renard’s did), cargo shorts and black combat boots. Yata caught sight of a tattooed rooster on his right arm before he turned to face them fully.

“Hello,” he said flatly.

“I was with Domas,” Renard patted the cushion next to him. Domas crossed and settled down beside him, although his eyes never left the Interpol agents.

Yata tried not to think too hard about the fact that the man staring at him could snap him like a wishbone. “You were together at the time?”

“Yes. We paid cash to get in, but we still have our bracelets from the club—you know the ones, so they know you’ve paid at the door, and—oh! Domas! You used your debit card to buy drinks, right?” Renard waited for Domas to nod before nodding himself. “So you can place us there for sure.”

“How long were you there?”

Renard furrowed his brow in thought. He turned to Domas, who shrugged. “One? Maybe one-thirty? I’m sorry, we were quite pickled at the time, it’s a little unclear…”

“Where did you go after the club?”

“We came back here. And, uh…” He grinned, while a corner of Domas’ mouth twitched upwards. “We didn’t leave after that. We were pretty busy.” He reached over, slid his hand over Domas’. Domas took it.

“I’m sorry,” Domas said. He spoke slowly. “We do not know more than that.”

“That’s quite all right.” Yata smiled again. “Thank you for your time.”

He and Zenigata started to rise. When they did, Renard made a small noise of realization. “Oh! You! I know you!” He pointed to Zenigata. “You’re Inspector Zenigata, I’ve seen you on the telly! You work the Lupin case!”

“Among others,” said Zenigata, with a curtness bordering on disdain.

Yata blinked up at Zenigata. He could count on two hands—maybe just one—the number of times the mention of Lupin had failed to send Zenigata into a frenzy. He glanced back at Renard, trying to see what Zenigata saw, what made his superior so reticent suddenly.

“Then—” Renard’s brown eyes widened “—does this have something to do with Lupin? Am I being framed for something?”

“Do you have cause to believe you’re being framed for something?” Zenigata asked.

“No—but—Lupin, that’s his whole thing, isn’t it? Going after wealth, and wealthy people—I have some rare items in a personal collection, and my mother’s jewels in England.” He swallowed as he looked up to Zenigata. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you think you have something to worry about,” Zenigata replied. He set his hat on his head. “Good day.”

**…**

Renard waited for Zenigata and the pup on his heels to close the front door. Only then did he frown. He grabbed his coffee again, tapping one finger against the cup in thought. “Lupin got his bulldog on my case faster than I thought he would. Something is going to have to be done about that.”

Domas followed his gaze to the door. “Do you want me to take care of him?”

“No.” Renard sipped his coffee. The morning was too flushed with victory to concern himself with such dark matters. “Not yet.”

**…**

Yata made to speak in the elevator, but Zenigata silenced him with a sharp look. Not a word was said until they were both in the Interpol-issued black car. Only when the engine purred did Zenigata nod. “What did you think?” he began to maneuver through the Roman traffic, scowling at any Fiats in view.

“He seemed believable. His reactions, the questions he asked…we’ll have to confirm his presence at the club, of course, but everything seemed in order…”

When he hesitated Zenigata gave him another look. One finger tapped against the steering wheel. “What does your gut tell you?”

“That he was _too_ natural,” Yata confessed. “Almost like he rehearsed it. And…he brought up Lupin.”

Zenigata nodded. “And he brought up Lupin.” 

“But…his alibi is tight…”

“Yata—” Zenigata stared straight forward, not even seeing the bus full of tourists squeezing its way through impossibly narrow city streets “—are you in the habit of inquiring about other men’s sexual history?” He waited for Yata’s indignant spluttering to subside before continuing: “Exactly. People don’t like to pry into intimate affairs, so alibis like that are nearly impossible to confirm or deny. As for the club…easy enough to get in, let yourself be seen, and then leave. Enough to get in, get out, and be wherever you need to be.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

“What do _you_ think?”

“I don’t think he’s _innocent_. But that’s not good enough.” Yata sighed and rested his head back. He closed his eyes, playing and replaying the interview in his head. He tried to pick his way through it, approach it from every angle the way Zenigata always seemed to. He kept coming back to the brief mention of Lupin. Lupin—it always came back to Lupin, didn’t it? But when he tried to think about that casual name drop, all he saw was the muted fury on Zenigata’s face.

Yata’s gut tugged to get his attention. But whatever it was trying to tell him was lost in translation on the way to his head. He opened one eye to see Zenigata staring down at him. “How long did it take you to trust your gut?”

“Too long.”

Yata groaned, which made Zenigata laugh. “At least you have a head start. What’s the gut saying now?”

“That I’m hungry.”

There was a small trattoria across the street from their hotel. Zenigata dropped Yata at the door before pulling into the hotel’s small parking lot. Theirs was a far cry from Renard’s lofty penthouse: drab brown carpet and peeling walls greeted Zenigata as he walked down the long corridor to their shared room. A bouquet of dry, browned flowers sat in a dusty vase. Zenigata glanced at them on the way to his rooms. If Lupin’s living space showed his craftiness, and Renard was overconfident, what did that bunch of dead flowers say about him?

He shook his head to the clear the thought, jammed his key into the lock, and swung the door open.

And then was Lupin, bouncing up and down on the bed like an eight-year-old.

“Jeez, Pops,” Lupin said, not even looking at the dumbfounded Inspector as mattress springs creaked and groaned beneath him, “you could never bring a girl back here, not unless you wanted the whole hotel to know what you were doing.”

He bounced again, an infuriating _boing-boing-boing_ sounding out as he turned to grin at Zenigata.

“Unless you _want_ the entire hotel to know what you’re doing…”

“ _LUPIN_!”

“Hi, that’s me, nice to see you too—OOPH!”

Zenigata had all but thrown himself across the room, tackling Lupin by the knees and taking them both down on the bed. Lupin laughed as Zenigata pinned him. “Wow! I usually have to buy people dinner first.”

Zenigata ignored the jab in favor of grabbing Lupin by the lapels of his orange jacket. He sat back on his heels and yanked the smirking thief up with him.

“Hey, hey, watch it! This is new.”

“ _What are you doing here_?”

Lupin pushed Zenigata away with his good hand. “I came to ask how your chat with Oliver Renard went.”

Zenigata didn’t bother asking how Lupin knew. Instead he scowled and shifted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress groaned in protest. “That is classified information as part of an ongoing investigation.”

“Yeah, but…it’s _me_.” Lupin gestured to the whole of himself before flopping down on Zenigata’s lap. He looked up at Zenigata with big doe eyes. “You’ll make an exception for _me_.”

Zenigata scoffed before shoving Lupin off his lap and onto the floor. He turned away with nose in the air, having long ago acquired an immunity to Lupin’s antics. “You’re not Fujiko, Lupin. You can’t bat your eyelashes and get whatever you want.”

Undeterred, Lupin planted his chin and both hands on the mattress beside Zenigata. “But what if I ask really, _really_ nicely?”

Zenigata glanced down at him. His eyes skated over Lupin’s doe eyes…but lingered a little too long on the splint on his right hand. “How’s your hand?” he asked, working to keep actual concern out of it.

“It hurts,” Lupin replied. He bounced back up to sit beside Zenigata. “Less than it did earlier, though.”

Lupin cupped his right hand in his left. There were bags under his eyes, Zenigata noted, and a pallor to his skin that hadn’t been there before. No, he said to himself firmly. Lupin could not just bat his eyes and get whatever the fuck he wanted. There were _rules_ and _laws_ and _boundaries_ , and they existed for a reason.

But when he weighed Lupin’s broken fingers and bloodied face against Renard’s flat brown eyes, something deep down inside wavered.

“He’s alibied,” Zenigata said at last. “That’s all you get to know.”

Lupin scowled. He clenched his good hand into a fist. “Then I’m going to take his alibi and shove it right up his skinny little—”

“Don’t,” Zenigata said sharply. “This is my investigation now. Don’t get involved.”

Yata would have quailed under that tone, but Lupin was just as immune to Zenigata as Zenigata was to him. He sniffed. “What do you want me to do? Sit back on my heels and twiddle my thumbs?”

Zenigata got to his feet, all the better to look down at Lupin. “I want you to get out of here. Out of my sight, out of Rome, out of the country. Go cause trouble somewhere else. _But stay out of this_. Stopping thieves is my job, not yours.”

Lupin looked him up and down once before getting to his feet. “All right, all right.”

“I mean it, Lupin.”

“ _All right_ , Pops.” Lupin flapped his hands as though physically repelling Zenigata’s words. “I’ll leave it to you.” He crossed the room in three swift strides and flung the door open.

On the other side, Yata jumped, nearly dropping the two slices of pizza he held. “L-Lupin?!”

“Yata, my boy!” Lupin beamed. He wrapped both arms around the young man in a huge hug. “How are you? I’d love to stay and chat, but I think I’m overstaying my welcome. Ciao, bello!” He flounced away, waving as he sprinted down the hall.

Yata gaped him before looking into the hotel room with a dazed expression. Zenigata stood by the bed, pinching his nose in exasperation.

“Lupin was—”

“I know.”

“—and he just—”

“I know.”

“—you were—”

“ _I know_.”

The Inspector looked so frustrated, Yata didn’t have the heart to push further. If he wanted to pursue Lupin, Yata reasoned, he would have pursued Lupin. Instead Yata extended out the second slice of pizza with a small smile. Said smile strengthened when Zenigata accepted the pizza with a murmur of thanks.

**…**

Hours later, that smile had been wiped completely away. Zenigata stood on a podium in front of at least thirty reporters, fending off questions left and right about Vatican security and Lupin the Third.

From the comfort of their hotel room, Goemon watched Zenigata with a slight frown. His higher-ups at Interpol had no doubt lit a fire underneath him as a result of the Vatican fiasco. He allowed himself an ounce of pity for the Inspector.

The argument in the other room had begun to escalate. Goemon rolled his eyes and turned up the volume with the television remote. Not that it did much good; snatches of the heated debate still came from around the corner:

“—your off-hand, Lupin, you can’t just _shoot_ with your _off-hand_ —”

“I just need to practice, that doesn’t mean I can’t at least _carry_ —”

“And go to grab it on reflex? Fuck no.”

“You need to trust me!”

“And you need to listen to me!”

The frustration in Jigen’s tone brought Goemon to his feet. He rounded the corner of the hotel room, stepping into the kitchenette to see Jigen and Lupin glaring at each other. Jigen leaned back against the fridge with arms crossed; Lupin sat on the counter, elbows on his thighs. His pistol sat on the counter beside him. The tension in the air was so thick Goemon could have sliced in half. Perhaps even in quarters.

He cleared his throat to get their attention. “We’re wasting time.”

Jigen held out his hand, palm flat. “Give me the gun.”

Lupin hesitated before picking his pistol and handing it to Jigen. He watched Jigen slide it into a holster on his belt, struggling not feel resentful. Jigen caught the sour look. “You’ll be fine. No gun is better than your big brain anyway.”

Lupin wished he could share Jigen’s confidence. Jigen was right about the gun, he knew. He couldn’t fire a gun with his off-hand. He’d been experimenting all day with using his left hand, but even simple things like holding a pen felt clumsy and reversed. Using his left hand had never been so awkward when in tandem with his right, but on its own it was an effort to do _anything_. The closest he’d felt to himself today had been his short meeting with Pops: Zenigata’s indignation told him he was still doing _something_ right.

Lupin sighed and pushed himself off the counter. In truth, that visit had been a small diversion rather than a morale boost. Zenigata would muddle for hours over whether he had bugged the room or lifted anything from Yata’s pockets. It would be ages before he thought to check under the car for a tracker…the tracker Lupin had placed there _before_ they’d paid a visit to Oliver Renard.

Lupin pulled up the address now. “Goe’s right, we’re wasting time.”

“Is this not breaking your promise to Zenigata?” Goemon asked as the trio went out the door.

“I told Pops I’d stay out of his way while he investigates Renard. I didn’t make any promises about the statue. We get in, we grab our prize, we get out.” Lupin watched Goemon frown. He could almost see the wrestling match between the samurai’s code of honor and his desire to kick Renard’s teeth in. “Technically,” he added, “we’re not breaking the promise of interfering with the _investigation_.”

Goemon’s frown deepened, assuaged but hardly impressed. “You live life on too many technicalities.”

No screw-ups this time. They all had gas masks, and Jigen had full blessing to blast the cheeky grin off Renard’s face if it came to that. He and Goemon would go in high, through the rooftop terrace. Lupin, winged as he was, would go low.

The security guard at the entrance of the apartment complex barely glanced at the uniformed Lupin breezing through the door. When Lupin showed him the piping hot pizza boxes and asked about Renard’s penthouse, the security guard even indicated which elevator to take.

Getting in was child’s play. Getting out would be harder, especially if a panicked Renard raised the alarm. Lupin would distract him from the front, while Jigen and Goemon took him out from behind. Spending a relaxing evening in, drunk on victory, Renard wouldn’t have time to grab his own tools.

At least, that’s what Lupin thought when he knocked on the penthouse door. “Delivery!”

No answer.

He frowned and rapped his knuckles against the door again. And again. And a fourth time. The heat from the pizza boxes had just begun to seep through his bad hand when the door opened. Lupin fixed a grin to his face. “Hi there! Did someone order—Jigen?”

Jigen shook his head before relieving Lupin of his burning burden. “Place is empty. Renard fled the coop.”

Lupin pushed the door open in disbelief. Sure enough, Goemon stood in the center of a spacious, upscale, and _empty_ penthouse. He had one hand on the hilt of his sword. “We checked each room thoroughly. The fox had the good sense to flee his burrow before we caught his tail.”

Lupin turned in a small circle, eyes roving over the pristine décor. Something stung in the pit of his stomach. Renard had studied everything about Lupin the Third, so _of course_ Renard had slipped out in this narrow window of time. It’s what he would have done, wasn’t it? Slipped out before other thieves could come to call?

He’d been outplayed. By his own way of thinking.

“Of course he did. It’s what I would do.”

In another moment he might have been impressed. Hell, he might have even considered Renard a proper worthy opponent. But as he stood in the penthouse with broken fingers and gray in his hair, all Lupin felt was the smallest twinge of despair.

Jigen opened the pizza box and helped himself to a slice. He offered one to Goemon, who turned his nose up at it. Instead he looked to Lupin. “It seems he learned too well from you.”

Lupin’s eyes fell to the coffee table. A small replica of the Capitoline Wolf had been placed on it. There was a simple statue, the type tourists could buy at any large gift shop. It _looked_ like a proper replica. Nothing out of place. But when he looked around the room, Lupin saw no other items of historical interest. No other statues, no paintings…the penthouse was pristinely devoid of personality, save for the Capitoline Wolf. Lupin’s eyes narrowed in thought.

He picked up the statue and turned it over. And there, taped on the underside, was a folded note.

_Lupin—_

_Hope this wolf makes up for the other one. If you wish this game to continue, meet me in_ _the Boxcar, eleven pm, one week from tonight. Let’s finish what Jack Murphy started._

_Of course, you are free to quit at any time. I’ll take any absence as sign of your capitulation._

_-Renard_

Jigen read over his shoulder, still munching on pizza. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Lupin stared down at the note. The smugness read loud and clear through in Renard’s neat, crisp handwriting. Capitulation. _Capitulation_! As if Lupin had ever _capitulated_ to anything in his life! Fury burned the despair in his stomach to ash.

_Game on, Renard._

“It means—” Lupin crushed the note in his left hand “—we’re going to New York.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a slight pause on updates after this chapter, as I'm back to work and my free time (writing time) is reduced. Hopefully not more than a few weeks!
> 
> In the meantime, kudos and comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> See you soon(ish)!
> 
> Chaos :3


	12. In Which the Pot Simmers Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lid doesn't blow unless heat and pressure are allowed to build.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait on this chapter, everyone! World events cause psychic damage and make it hard to write. 
> 
> For the last third of this chapter, club music playlists come highly recommended!

**Chapter Eleven, In Which the Pot Simmers Slowly**

“Helluva lot of trouble for one rock,” Jigen said flatly.

The Star of India glittered in the gloom of the museum. Visitors passed it at a snail’s pace, eyes widening at the sight of the precious gem. Roughly the size of a golf ball, the sapphire seemed to glow blue under the pale display lights Most fascinating of all, however, were the five stripes of pure white crisscrossing the gem to make a star.

The Hall of Gemstones and Minerals was dark and cool, creating a sense of ambiance as visitors strolled among of the world’s most precious gemstones. They sat in display cases on the floor and on the walls, arranged by type and color and size. All were beautiful, in the way only gemstones could be. Some, though…some were more special than others.

“Apparently you’re the only one who thinks so,” Lupin replied.

“Eh?”

“1964. The Star of India was stolen from the Museum of Natural History by three thieves. The ringleader was Jack Murphy, better known as Murph the Surf—”

Jigen’s laugh was a harsh bark. “They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore, huh?”

“—apparently not. Murph and his buddies came in through a bathroom window, came to this wing, and lifted a handful of valuable gems, including the Star of India. Only one security guard making the rounds that night, and he didn’t catch them because the battery in the alarm had died.”

“Some thieves have all the luck. How’d the museum get it back?”

“Because some thieves have all the luck and none of the brains. They’d been living the high life in some swanky hotel, and disappeared right after the jewels did. Even a minimum-wage bellhop can put two and two together like that. Police arrested them two days later, but it took another few months to retrieve the jewels from a bus locker in Miami.” As he spoke Lupin crouched, studying the thick, well-armed safe the Star of India now occupied. Across the room a thick-set security guard moved from case to case. Apparently the Museum had learned its lesson well.

Jigen looked between the gem and Lupin. “Where do you learn all this stuff?”

“I read.”

“Huh. So Renard thinks he’s gonna succeed where other thieves failed,” Jigen said. He tugged at his goatee in thought. He glanced around the darkened room in a futile search of vantage points. All he found, however, was a handful of conspicuous security cameras. “Guess the open window trick is out of the question.”

“Shame,” Lupin said. His brow furrowed as he stared down at the priceless sapphire. Lesser thieves had a habit of ruining convenient ins and outs. But that had never slowed him down—if anything, it made the average job more exciting. He had to be better than his predecessors, faster and cleverer. He had to get creative, poke and prod from angles no one else ever thought to.

Well, he admitted to himself, no one except Zenigata. But the inspector’s tenacity kept him on his toes, so it all worked out in the end.

“C’mon, Ji. We got work to do.”

The American Museum of Natural History was chock-full of expensive little shinies, but that wasn’t why Lupin liked it (by and large). As a self-professed citizen of the world and seeker of all things interesting, he loved the various displays and exhibitions, from meteorites to mammals. He loved the throngs of families and couples who pushed past. He loved the teenagers taking selfies with dinosaur bones and the slack-jawed eight-year-olds gaping up at a life-size blue whale hanging from the rafters. There was something new to be seen around every corner, some interesting fact to soak up. The museum curators had taken the whole wide wonderful world and condensed it into an afternoon’s tour.

He and Jigen backtracked through the cool, darkened Hall of Gems and Minerals and into the hall of Human Origins. Lupin cast wistful glances around at the displays of early humans, eyes lingering on a group of children gathered around a Neanderthal.

Jigen followed his gaze to the squat, hairy homo sapiens and snorted. “Didn’t know you had relatives here.”

Lupin didn’t take the bait. Instead his expression shifted into something thoughtful. “Do you ever think about how modern humans wiped out other kinds of humans?”

“I try not to. Hey,” Jigen nudged him. “Leave the doom and gloom for the samurai, huh? We got a job to think about.”

Lupin nodded. But even as they moved into North American biodiversity his thoughts lingered. Neanderthals and thieves like Murph the Surf, both by-products of a bygone era. Confined to museum displays and library microfiche. People still knew them, though, he assured himself as a gaggle of unsupervised children ran around his legs. People still sought out knowledge of them. Gone, he said to himself, was not the same thing as forgotten.

Eventually they spilled out into the entrance hall, where a tyrannosaurus rex towered over museum-goers. It was Jigen’s turn to give the t-rex a wistful glance.

“Think we can make off with that?”

“Eh,” Lupin shrugged, “not worth the effort of carting off in city traffic.” With that, both men stepped through the double-doors and out into the city.

If Paris had beauty, and Rome had history, then New York City had _audacity_.

Perhaps that was what Lupin liked about it. The city didn’t just hum with life; it went to the rooftop and screamed about it. New York City did not particularly care if you couldn’t keep up with it: either you learned to navigate the flow of its life or you drowned. Hundreds of people crowded the warm city streets, always with some destination in mind. Tourists craned their necks up to gawk at skyscrapers, and timidly followed locals into oncoming traffic. Joggers and street vendors and the homeless all competed for sidewalk space, while on the corner a man with a battered sax played the blues. It was noisy and chaotic and _Lord_ it smelled, but that suited Lupin just fine.

In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, the Museum of Natural History seemed almost subdued. While it was not easily lost amid its towering neighbors, the face of the building, all marble and pillars, did stick out like a sore thumb. Across the street Central Park spread out like a thick green blanket, a futile-but-appreciated measure to smother the smog of the city.

Lupin paused on the steps of the museum, staring out at the greenery across the street. Then he lowered his eyes to his splinted fingers. It had been a week since the failed Vatican heist, and the lack of full mobility was starting to drive him up the wall—never mind Jigen and Goemon, who had put up with his endless complaining the same way prisoners of war endured the rack.

Jigen kicked a fat pigeon off the steps with a scowl. “I hate this city.”

“Hm,” said Lupin, who paid no attention to the indignant cooing just below him. His eyes were still on his broken fingers. “Hey, what if I had, like, a fake hand? Y’know, to make Renard think I never got hurt at all. Is that something? Is that anything?”

“No.”

When Lupin visibly deflated Jigen just shrugged. “You’re gonna have to find another way around this one, Lupin. He’s no dupe.”

The whoop-whoop of a squad car knocked Lupin out of his thoughts. He lifted his head to watch it cruise by with lights flashing. Jigen’s scowl deepened, but Lupin cocked his head to the side in sudden thought. “Maybe not. But other people are.”

Speaking of dupes…

“Where’s Goemon?”

“Enjoying his newfound fame,” Jigen jerked his head towards a crowd at the street’s corner.

Goemon stood in its center, eyes shut, arms folded as people—mostly young women—asked for a picture with him. As Lupin drew closer, he could hear one complimenting Goemon on his convincing cosplay sword. A faint crease appeared in Goemon’s brow. Lupin stepped between them before Goemon had the chance to prove just how _convincing_ his Zantetsuken was.

“Yeah, our samurai here looks authentic,” Lupin said blithely, ignoring the daggers Goemon stared into his back. “He’s off the clock, though. You can get a picture with me instead, if you like!” He straightened up and grinned, waiting for the recognition to click.

Instead the young woman just stared in polite puzzlement. “Sorry? Who are you?”

Lupin paused with a fixed grin. “Ah. You don’t recognize me?”

She shook her head, prompting the still-glowering Goemon to speak: “He is well-known on the app Dancr.”

Lupin shot Goemon his own daggered look, resulting in a momentary duel-to-the-death as the young woman shrugged. “Oh. I don’t use Dancr. Too much hassle.”

“No matter,” Lupin said, a little too loudly. He yielded his death glare to grab Goemon by the wrist and yank him free of the crowd. Goemon did not fight as Lupin started to shove him across the street towards Central Park. “Have a good day!”

Fifteen minutes later, Jigen found them sitting on a park bench in front of a rippling ake. Lupin sat with elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, eyes fixed on the water as if it had done him some personal ill. Goemon simply scattered fistfuls of duck feed for the waterfowl crowding around their feet.

Jigen sank down on Lupin’s other side with vendor cart hot dogs in hand. Typical street fare, almost cliché really, but thieves didn’t work on empty stomachs. Lupin took his without comment and went back to staring at the water.

The melancholy had Jigen rolling his eyes. “Stop pouting.”

“She didn’t know who I was!”

“You’re a thief. You’re not _supposed_ to be recognized. C’mon, influencer, focus on your real job,” Jigen took an agitated bite from his frank before pointing across the way to the museum. “How are we going to get that big shiny rock out of that big shiny building?”

“Funny you should ask,” Lupin replied, “because I happen to have a brilliant idea. Granted, all my ideas are brilliant—”

“Oh, really?” Goemon muttered. All around their feet ducks waddled and quacked in competition for Goemon’s attention. A furious flurry of feathers erupted when he tossed another handful of feed into their midst.

“Shut up.” He looked back to the expectant Jigen before gesturing to the whole of Central Park around them—and then beyond, the bustling urban life behind the park’s borders. “You ever wonder how all these power grids are connected?”

The obnoxious quacking of ducks hid Lupin’s low voice as he outlined his plans to the others. New York City was connected in a series of grids, which was convenient as far as stealing went: one bad surge and a whole block went out. Police and emergency services would have their hands full getting the blackout under control, which left fewer hands to deal with any sticky-fingered thieves. As for Zenigata, who would follow Lupin through blackouts, whiteouts, and knock-outs—well, he would have to be kept busy elsewhere.

“The Museum of Modern Art?” Jigen repeated, just to make sure he had heard Lupin correctly.

Lupin nodded. “You don’t have to steal anything from it. Just feint at it. Enough to keep him busy. By the time he realizes he’s been duped, I’ll have the Star of India in my hot little hand.”

“And Renard?”

“Is fast. But not as fast as me. Not without cheating.” Their race in the Vatican had proven that much. “This time it’s about speed, not pizzazz.”

“So no turning the museum into a club.”

“No. This time we keep it simple. Old-fashioned.”

Lupin didn’t realize his choice of words until Jigen snorted. He scowled, got to his feet, and stormed off in the direction of the hot dog vendor. Jigen and Goemon were left to exchange glances.

“What do you think?” Goemon asked, once Lupin was sufficiently out of earshot.

Jigen shrugged. This wasn’t the worst idea Lupin had ever concocted, but it wasn’t the most complete either. Dangling loose ends bothered him. “Plan is a good start. They usually are, and Lupin is good at thinking on his feet when something goes wrong. And if we can hit two joints in one night, so much the better for us.”

“But?” Goemon prompted gently.

“But there’s only so much a thief can do with one hand. Lupin ain’t admitting to the facts there. And packing Zenigata off to another spot? Since when did Lupin ever want Zenigata anywhere besides front and center?” Jigen shook his head. “This fight lost its fun. He wants it over with as quickly as possible.”

Goemon was quiet for a long moment. The ducks quacked impatiently at his feet, seemingly annoyed that the next helping had not yet appeared. Goemon didn’t hear them: his eyes had found Lupin through the shaded boughs. The master thief stood in line with shoulders hunched, hands tucked into his pockets. It seemed as though all energy had left him in a rush.

“Tonight is the night you two are meeting with Renard, yes?”

“Yeah,” Jigen said. “That outta be good.”

“And Zenigata has arrived in New York by now, has he not?”

“Yeah…” Jigen gave Goemon a sidelong look, suddenly wary of this line of questioning. “Why?”

Goemon ignored Jigen’s suspicious tone and went back to feeding the ducks. 

…

“Stop staring.”

Zenigata’s flat tone barely registered to Yata. The young man stared slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the overly-large banner for New York City’s premiere Museum of Sex. The banner featured a woman clothed in such a way that it seemed obscener than if she had been completely nude. The longer he stared the more the noisy, crowded city seemed to melt away. A sharp, undignified yelp escaped him when Zenigata grabbed him by the collar and hauled him down the street.

It took a block and a half of spluttering before Zenigata relinquished his grip. Yata jerked away, smoothing down his collar with a frown.

Zenigata arched an eyebrow at him. “No distractions.”

“I was thinking,” Yata said, in a bold effort to save face, “that Lupin’s proclivities are well-known, and he might find some entertainment—”

“Right next to you, you mean?” Zenigata replied. A moment passed, and then a wry grin stretched the length of his face. He leaned forward to rap his knuckles against Yata’s forehead. “You’re on the job. So is he. _Think_.”

“Yes, sir,” Yata said. He fell into step beside Zenigata, walking the nighttime streets of NYC and trying very hard not to look like a tourist. When his phone dinged he reached for it, and Zenigata slowed his pace to allow time for reading. “From Interpol. Renard’s in NYC.”

“Is he? Good.”

“That’s not evidence he’s going to rob anything,” Yata said. He liked being the contrarian on occasion—it showed him how Zenigata thought things through.

And sure enough, the old bulldog shook his head. “No. But even circumstantial evidence has its uses. Showing up in a city where a major robbery has taken place is coincidence. But doing it twice? That—”

“—is the start of a pattern,” Yata finished. “Not very smart of him.”

“He’s young. And rich. Rich people tend to think their wealth will shield them from consequences.” Zenigata stopped short suddenly, gaze snapping down an adjacent narrow alley.

“Sometimes it does.” Yata, writing notes on his phone, didn’t immediately notice where his superior’s attention had gone. 

“Sometimes. But justice always has its due. Isn’t that right, Goemon?”

The samurai stepped out of the shadows in one fluid movement. If Zenigata had startled him, he showed no sign of it as he stepped up to the pair. “Inspector,” he said, before glancing at Yata. His brow furrowed in slight recognition. “You’re the one who helped us in Dorrente.”

Yata started and nodded, oddly pleased to be remembered. Goemon inclined his head slightly before turning back to the impassive Zenigata. The inspector folded both arms over his chest. “What are you doing here, Goemon? We both know it’s not to turn yourself in.”

“It’s Lupin.”

Of all the words in the world, these two alone made Zenigata start. Instantly he unfolded his arms and stepped forward. “Is he in trouble? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, yet,” Goemon said with a shake of his head. “I am…concerned for him. Perhaps unduly, knowing him as well as I do. But, knowing him as well as I do…he has not been himself. And this contest with Renard has only worsened the problem.”

“I think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say in a row,” Zenigata said. But there was little humor in the response, and that had Yata glancing at him. Zenigata’s expression had not changed, but his eyes burned with fury. “What _exactly_ is the problem?”

“Lupin is…”

Goemon paused, looking for the right word. Panicked? No, not Lupin. Anxious, reckless, no and no, those didn’t fit either. Neither did fearful, really. Lupin was a slow-boiling pot over an open flame. Lupin was the gradual pressure under which continents broke. Lupin was…Lupin was…

“Angry,” he said at last.

All around them the city refused to sleep. Dogs barked and sirens wailed and people shouted at each other in hoarse, drunken tones. Zenigata paid no notice to any of it. The whole world was gone, replaced by Lupin, Lupin with burning eyes and blood trickling down the side of his face. Lupin was many things, good and bad. But Lupin was not angry.

“What do you need me to do?” Zenigata said in a low voice.

Goemon took a deep breath. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. “There is a favor I would ask of you.”

…

The Boxcar was like any other New York City nightclub at two am: loud, crowded, and pulsing with music and sound. Twenty- and thirty-somethings danced to the chaotic beat without a care in the world—save for that of spilled alcohol. The music, orchestrated by a peach-fuzzed DJ in a Yankees cap, reverberated through the bones with a deep THRUM-THRUM-THRUM. The rank smells of sex and sweat and weed dripped through the narrow spaces between warm bodies. Multicolored lights danced and swirled over clubgoers in time, giving the whole scene an almost surreal quality.

Lupin winced as he sipped his Long Island Iced Tea. Truth be told, he didn’t mind the flashing lights or the booming music, but they were an unpleasant reminder of his Vatican failure. He tore his eyes away from a group of people doing the Outlaw, and instead tried to occupy himself with the thought of Zenigata pushing through this club. It worked: just the thought of stern, old-fashioned Pops trying to shove his way through this multicolored migraine-making hellscape put a grin on his face.

The bar was the most strategic viewpoint in the club, allowing them to settle down on stools and watch the chaos from a relatively safe distance. Beside him, Jigen downed his third shot of whiskey. He tilted his head to the side, as if trying that would make the music sound better in his ear.

“How many times can they fit ‘fuck’ into one song?” he called to Lupin over the din.

“Is that a complaint or a challenge?” Lupin bellowed back.

They laughed, and for a moment everything was good.

Then Jigen straightened up. He nudged Lupin, nodding to the man walking towards them with purpose in his step. Lupin found him instantly: tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and beard, dressed like he had been teleported out of some hard rock concert. Their eyes met through the crowd.

Lupin kept his stance carefully nonchalant as the dark-haired man neared. “Lupin the Third?”

“The one and only,” Lupin replied. He held up one finger as the dark-haired man started to speak. He took a long, loud slurp from his Long Island Ice Tea. It was only when his guest scowled that he smacked his lips and slouched further down in his seat. “What can I do for you?”

“Lord Renard has arranged for a private booth.” He held a finger up, indicating the upper level of the Boxcar. There, people with more money than sense sipped drinks and chatted from the security of private booths. Every once in a while they would glance down at the crowd below, watching for whichever hapless drunk seemed easiest to impress.

Lupin looked up, found the redhead watching him from on high. _Petty, Oliver_. He lowered his gaze back to their escort with a small smile. “Ooh, fancy. Lead the way, then.”

Drinks in hand, Lupin and Jigen followed their escort to the upper level. No one spared them so much as a second look, too absorbed in and too dazzled by their own night to care. Lupin sipped his drink as they ascended to the upper level and into a private booth. Here, dance floor lights shimmered over red vinyl booths. Thick, soundproof windows rattled to the beat of the music.

Renard sat against the booth at the window with a vape pen dangled from his fingertips idly. He grinned broadly when Lupin and Jigen entered the booth, but did not make to stand. “Lupin! How are you?”

“As spry as ever, Renard,” Lupin replied. He made no move to hide his broken fingers as he sank down into the booth perpendicular to Renard. Jigen followed suit, while the dark-haired man settled down beside Renard.

Jigen watched Renard pull at the pen’s mouthpiece before pulling his own battered carton of cigarettes and lighter. “You mind?”

“Not at all,” Renard shrugged. Even so, he wrinkled his nose as Jigen’s thumb flicked against the lighter’s latch. “Though that’s hardly good for your lungs.”

“Says the kid puffing cotton-candy smoke,” Jigen snapped.

Lupin murmured his name in warning, but Renard just shrugged and pulled at his vape pen again. “Safer than cigarettes, no? Everyone and their grandmother knows not to smoke a pack a day. Soon enough they’ll be museum relics.”

Jigen took a long, calming drag off his cigarette. Smoke billowed out of his nose, and only then did he choose to respond: “Next to Star of India, you mean?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jigen, they wouldn’t put cigarettes in gemstone galley,” Lupin said, tone light. He ignored the sidelong look from Jigen and sat forward towards Renard. “Your ambition continues to impress. More experienced thieves had tried for that sapphire and failed.”

“Why settle for anything less than the best?” Renard replied. “If you’re troubled, Lupin, it’s not too late to say no.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you. You’re good, Renard, but these scores are big even for an experienced thief. This isn’t some hobby you can get bored of and toss aside.” Lupin watched the grin slip from Renard’s face and tried not to feel too satisfied. “Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

“I suppose someone gave you the same lecture at some point.” Cotton-white smoke curled around Renard’s retort, filling the small booth with the smell of strawberry.

“He did, in fact.” Often and well. “Didn’t yours?”

“No.”

“No? What about your mother?”

And there it was. Something flickered in Renard’s eyes, even as he maintained that neutral expression. _Ah_ , Lupin thought to himself. _Don’t like talking about mummy, little Olly? Or don’t like other people talking about mummy?_

“She never had much of a hand in my education.”

“Pity.” At last Lupin held up his bandaged hand for Renard to see. “If she had, maybe you’d be a better person.”

Renard had the courage to look directly at his hand. That, at least, could be said for him. His expression remained flat—but Lupin saw another flick in his eyes, and the quick downturn of his mouth. Shame, or the closest a rich man could feel to it. Then he shook his head. “Maybe. But we didn’t come here to discuss paths untaken. I’d much prefer to discuss that sapphire.”

“The Star of India,” Lupin said as he lowered his hand. “Trying to one-up old thieves now, are we?”

“What’s the point of having great thieves from the history books if you don’t get the chance to one-up them? If I see an opportunity I take it. Besides, now that Inspector Zenigata is lurking about—”

It was a damn good thing Lupin was a damn good poker player. Otherwise Renard would have seen the bulge resulting from his heart leaping into his throat. Zenigata? Why did Renard have tabs on _Pops_? “Zenigata?” He asked. His tone was so neutral, so disaffected, that Jigen gave him a puzzled look.

Renard shrugged and flicked a hand around. “Big chap, wears a battered hat and an old trenchcoat, usually has a wide-eyed assistant on his heels taking notes? Surely you’ve heard of him—you are, I presume, the one who sent him sniffing around my front door back in Rome.”

“He was spotted getting off a plane this morning,” the dark-haired man said in a low voice, “wide-eyed assistant and all.”

“Who the hell are you, again?” Jigen demanded, with no small amount of annoyance in his tone.

The dark-haired man stared at him, while Renard slapped a hand to his forehead. He leaned over to slip one hand over his companion’s. “Oh, where are my manners? Lupin, Jigen, this is Domas. Domas, Lupin and Jigen.”

“Charmed,” Lupin said flatly. Beside him Jigen just took another drag off his cigarette.

Domas didn’t reply. Renard glanced between Domas, Jigen’s muted agitation, and Lupin’s flat expression. Any amount of lingering guilt had vanished, replaced by a slight smirk. He patted Domas’ hand before leaning forward with hands clasped. “Tell me, Lupin, are you always in the habit of running off to the inspector the moment things don’t go your way? Perhaps I’ve overestimated your ability all these years. How many of your rivals has he put away in exchange for you sucking his—”

Lupin snapped an arm out, catching Jigen at the chest as the gunman lurched forward. Jigen snarled, low and wordless, and only pulled his hand away from his holster when Lupin gave him a warning look. Not here. Not now. A scene would only serve to benefit Renard.

Renard continued to smirk. Domas remained still with arms folded. A rainbow of lights swirled and flashed around them. The music and noise of the crowd had been muffled to a dull _brum-brum-brum_ , echoing Lupin’s heartbeat as he subtly pushed Jigen back.

Lupin did not dare to speak until Jigen sank down into his seat. “That’s below the belt, Renard. I thought a champion dueler was beyond such tactics. Zenigata is a useful tool at times, but he’s usually nothing more than a well-timed nuisance. If he has reason to suspect you, that’s _your_ fault, not mine. And for what it’s worth, I’ve ensured he’ll be occupied elsewhere tomorrow night.”

Renard’s eyes narrowed at once. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Lupin nodded, pretending he hadn’t seen the panic dashing across Renard’s eyes. _Thought you had more time to prepare, didn’t you?_ “Zenigata won’t interrupt our contest.”

“He had best not,” Renard replied, tone clipped. “This is _our_ game, Lupin. Remember that.”

“Believe you me, Renard, you make it hard to forget.”

With that, Lupin stood, drained the last of his drink, and walked out. He didn’t look to see whether Jigen followed: he swept back down the steps, two at a time, and shoved his way through the drunks and dancers to the exit.

NYC air could not be considered fresh, but the faint breeze was a welcome change from the club’s stifling atmosphere. Lupin took a deep breath, orienting himself, before yanking his own box of cigarettes and his lighter out of his jacket pocket. He popped the cigarette into his mouth, took a drag and held it until he could feel the smoke crackling in his lungs.

By the time Jigen’s lanky frame sidled up beside his, Lupin was feeling marginally more himself. He stared down at the flickering orange end of his cigarette.

“Smart-mouthed little prick,” Jigen muttered. Once more his hand brushed against the holster at his waist.

“Let it go, Ji,” Lupin said. “Zenigata’s heard worse from better, and so have I.”

Jigen flicked the dog end of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it under his heel. He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t like the look of that Domas either. I know a mercenary when I see one.”

“That’s because you see one every time you look in the mirror.”

Lupin puffed at his cigarette with brow furrowed. The idea that Renard had been keeping an eye on Zenigata was oddly…unsettling. Why, exactly, he did not know—only that few enough of the eccentrics and villains he had contended with had ever considered Zenigata worthy of note. Pops was _his_ to mess with, _dammit_ , and no amount of smug youths could take that away.

Anger roiled, thick and hot like the smoke in his throat, forcing Lupin to swallow it down. He needed a clear head if this heist was going to go off. Clean and quick, just like Jack Murphy.

“C’mon, Jigen,” he said. “That museum isn’t going to rob itself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> 1) The Hall of Gems and Minerals has been closed for renovations since Summer 2019, which necessitating a reconstruction of its description from old articles and descriptions.  
> 2) Murph the Surf was a real guy, and yes, he did get busted for stealing the Star of India and several other precious gems only a few days later. Most of the gems turned up in a bus locker in Miami, Florida, a month later. Several, including the Eagle Diamond, were never recovered.  
> 3) 'Dorrente' is a reference to the Lupin movie 'Prison of the Past'. It's a fun little romp, and Yata is in it! Is all you need to know.  
> 4) Don't think you'd be able to get away with smoking indoors in this day and age, but Jigen is a rebel and Renard thinks rules are for Other People.  
> 5) The Museum of Sex is real and its storefront alone is worth checking out. 
> 
> Hope to see you soon!
> 
> Chaos


	13. In Which the Lights Go Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One man's collateral damage is another man's raison d'etre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! This quickly! That can only be a good thing for readers--right? Right?
> 
> As before, I've never broken into the Museum of Natural History, Rule of Cool is in effect, etc, etc.
> 
> Suggested listening for this chapter:  
> "0:59" by Danger  
> "22:41" by Danger  
> "I Am the Storm" by Ramin Djawadi (and shoutout to all of my Discord friends who saw me listening to this one on repeat for a week straight and automatically resigned themselves to the fact that I was writing)

**Chapter Twelve, In Which the Lights Go Out**

The bitter wind was a vicious last gasp of winter. New York City moved regardless, seemingly determined to grit its teeth and work through the chill. Yata, likewise, pulled his trenchcoat closer as the wind swept among squad cars and vans crowded around the Museum of Art and Culture. Despite the size of the crowd, and the size of the city beyond it, everything in the immediate area seemed muffled.

Yata’s stomach, currently doing its best impression of a pretzel, did not help the ominous sense of waiting. Several times now the anxiety almost congealed into word form, forcing Yata to swallow it back.

Zenigata endured several minutes of noisy gulping before sighing. “What is it?”

They stood by one of the cop cars, clutching cheap coffees as NYPD officers milled around, waiting for the figurative fireworks to start. Yata took a sip of coffee, perhaps to stall for time, before speaking: “What if it’s a trap?”

To Yata’s immense relief, Zenigata did not immediately shirk the question. Instead he focused his intense gaze on the glowing city skyline. “Then it’s a trap, Lupin gets a good laugh at my expense, and we move on.”

“What if Goemon was lying to you about their plan?”

Zenigata shook his head. “Goemon is the worst liar out of the bunch. If Lupin wanted to deceive me, he would have sent Fujiko.”

“Maybe that’s what he _wants_ to think.”

Zenigata chuckled at that. “ _Now_ you’re thinking like an officer who works the Lupin case.”

Yata managed a grin at that. The grin drained from his face as fast as it had come, though, and he went back to staring at the American cops. Zenigata looked between his assistant and the NYPD. It was one thing to follow. It was a very different thing to lead. He had been there once: the day they had given him Lupin’s file and let him off the leash to hunt. Some things became easier over time, Zenigata found. But command— _leadership_ —no. That, he could never allow to feel comfortable, for their sakes as much as his.

With that in mind he turned to Yata. “Are you nervous?”

Yata took another long gulp of coffee. This would be his first time overseeing a Lupin-related sting without his superior present, and each stab of anxiety was a knife in his chest. Other superiors might have wanted a bold, sure answer or a promise to bring Lupin to justice. Not Zenigata, though. Zenigata, who waited for his answer with a patience born from practice.

“Yes,” Yata said at last.

“Good. I’d be more worried if you thought you had everything under control.” Zenigata nodded before reaching up, planting a hand on Yata’s shoulder. “This is what you’ve been training for, Yata. You are a member of Interpol, and more importantly you work with me. And you wouldn’t be working with me if you were not capable. You _will_ do this.”

Yata blinked. And then his youthful face hardened in resolve. For a moment, he looked exactly like his superior. “Be careful, Inspector.”

“Relax, Yata,” Zenigata said as he turned and made for the opposite direction. “All these years, Lupin hasn’t killed me yet.”

**…**

“Tomorrow, he says! Tomorrow, easy as you _bloody_ please!”

Renard’s grumblings fell away into colorful curses he finished pulling on his padded gloves. Domas, in the driver’s seat of the quietly-purring Prius, listened without comment. Expletives were part-and-parcel of Renard’s pre-game, something that seemed to help settle his nerves before the heist itself took place. Tonight was no exception.

The Prius idled a few blocks away from the Museum of Natural History. Even at this time of night, no one would give the vehicle a second glance. Renard busied himself with the rest of his prep, while Domas dug his phone of his pocket. He read through his incoming messages with a furrowed brow.

“Huh.”

“What’s ‘huh’?”

“My guys say Zenigata is on Fifty-Third, but heading north. What the fuck is he doing over there?”

“Lupin did say he intended on keeping Zenigata busy elsewhere. It seems he kept his promise.”

Domas arched a disbelieving eyebrow. Ever since Rome, the inspector had occupied Renard’s thoughts more often than Lupin had. Renard was a good liar, but Zenigata had honed his bullshit-detecting skills against the best liar of them all. “He make you nervous? Zenigata?”

“Fuck no,” Renard answered, a little too quickly.

Domas rolled his eyes before shifting, unbuckling the holster at his waist and dropping the handgun into Renard’s lap.

Renard started. He stared down at the handgun in veiled dislike. “What’s this for?”

“Protection.”

“I have protection.”

“You have a sword,” Domas said flatly. He jerked a thumb at the sheathed rapier in the backseat. “This is a gun. _My_ weapon made _your_ weapon obsolete. Take it.”

Still Renard hesitated. “You know I’m a terrible shot.”

“I do.” Domas pushed himself forward to press a kiss to Renard’s freckled cheek. “They don’t.”

After a few minutes Renard emerged from the Prius, rapier and handgun both at his hip. With fox mask in hand he turned to grin at Domas. Domas scoffed as he leaned over both seats and grabbed the open door by the latch. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need it!” Renard called back.

The Prius sped off into the brightly-lit night. Renard watched it disappear around the corner before taking a deep breath. It did little to ease his nerves, or the trill of excitement that ran up and down his spine. All these years, all this preparation, and it was finally paying off. For years he had dreamed of the moment he surpassed his idol in all things thievery. If he succeeded tonight, Lupin the Third would be nothing but a footnote in the history of Renard the Second.

Funny, really. After all these years, Renard had expected something more…impressive in Lupin’s place. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t worthy of the expectations—that little Vatican party had been a good touch—but still, not to the degree Renard wanted. Much and more of Lupin’s success, he had to assume, went to the Inspector snapping up lesser thieves in Lupin’s wake. The memory of opening his penthouse door to a pair of ICPO agents still rankled.

Renard had read every case and watched every report. The pattern was unmistakable: whenever Lupin went Zenigata followed, and yet the Interpol inspector never managed to keep Lupin confined for more than a few months. Clever, that; get another man to do all the dirty work for you, make a good showing of due diligence before you slipped out the back door. Use whatever leverage you had over him to nip competition in the bud. Clever and cowardly.

The taste of lightning licked the air.

And in the next instant there was a WHOOSH, a sharp _snap_!, and a thousand little pops, as though a thousand toy guns just fired. In a tidal wave of darkness the bright lights of Manhattan blinked out. Renard froze in place, eyes wide as the city went pitch-black around him.

What.

The.

_Fuck_.

For a moment it seemed the entirety of Manhattan shared his sentiment. Everything ground to a screeching halt. Then a car horn blared, someone shouted, and city noise rose a fever pitch.

Renard paid it no mind. He only had eyes for the Museum of Natural History. Its lights had gone out as well, but a flicker of pale light through the windows indicated that the emergency generator had kicked on. Good for keeping the lights on and minimum security running, Renard thought, but nowhere near enough to keep priceless artifacts out of the hands of—

_Lupin_. 

Renard yanked his mask on and burst into a sprint. Caution abandoned, Renard ran down the darkened Central Park West, vaulted over a low barrier, and across the museum’s thick green lawn. He flicked his wrist in a quick, practiced motion, and a sticky wire burst from the spool in his sleeve. With a soft _fwip_! the sticky edge attached to the museum’s smooth siding. Renard picked up speed and launched himself into the air. His boots connected to the wall with a thud, and the Fox began to climb.

The wind tossed the ends of his hair, just as it had during the Vatican heist. This time, though, there was no pausing to admire the view, no gloating over the sights. His eyes never left the rooftop’s edge as he rappelled upwards.

The climb couldn’t have taken more than a minute, perhaps two, but to Renard it felt as though an eternity passed before he clambered over the rooftop’s edge. He stopped only long enough to zip the wire back into his sleeve. Then his attention fixed on the padlocked rooftop hatch.

Picking locks was the first thing he had learned to do when he had vowed to become a thief. A thin how-to book had served as his teacher, along with a set of locks and lockpicks; bought discreetly and hidden in shifting spots around his room, so an unsuspecting maid never chanced upon them. Now very felt much like then: kneeling down, sliding the pick into the lock, listening for the tell-tale click. For a moment he was back in his bedroom, hunched over his desk as his father’s footsteps echoed down the hall.

_Click_.

Renard grinned, pried the hatch open, and leaped into the museum.

After a few minutes of striding down a nondescript maintenance hall, Renard slipped through a door and into the museum proper. Dim lights backlit massive skeletons of mammoths and mastodons, stretching their long shadows over Renard. A poster plastered to a nearby wall helpfully welcomed him to the Hall of Advanced Mammals, Fourth Floor. Renard gnashed his teeth. Fourth floor! By now Lupin would be waltzing out the front door!

As a shadow he moved through the hall. It was only at the top of the stairs that a flash of light brought him to a halt.

“—damnest thing, Marv, damnest thing—”

“Bah! This’s got nothin’ on the blackout of seventy-seven, whole damn city lost its goddamn mind—”

Renard flattened himself against the wall. He held his breath even as his hand drifted towards the canisters at his waistline. The voices of the disgruntled security guards grew closer. The yellow circle of the flashlight grew larger and larger.

The first guard took his first step around the corner. Renard snapped the top of the canister open and flung it.

_Tink—tink—FWOOSH!_

“What the fuck is—?!”

Marv and his buddy never got the chance to finish their sentence. As thick white smoke billowed in the hall, Renard swung around the corner and darted past the two hacking old men. He shot one hand out and snatched the walkie-talkie from one security guard. The tell-tale THUD of bodies hitting the ground echoed behind him as he flew down to the third level.

Renard slammed himself against the nearest wall and sank down. The radio in his hands crackled as a half-dozen voices spoke at once: 

“—security cameras scrambled!—”

“—breaking and entering, on the first level—”

“—call Nine-One-One!”

“YEAH?! Us and every other bastard in Manhattan right now!”

Ah, that was too clever by half. Renard slipped the walkie-talkie onto his belt, got to his feet, and began a mad dash to the first level. Exhibits loomed large in the dark around him, mammals and cosmos and ancient peoples with dead eyes, but Renard paid them no mind. There was nothing of interest or significance here, nothing save Lupin himself—faster now, faster, plumes of white smoke in his wake as he ran, the _smack_ of his boots against the clean tile floor covered by the coughing of unsuspecting security guards.

A flash of orange had Renard skidding to a halt. Once more he sank low, dipping behind a pair of skulls for cover as Lupin danced amid Neanderthals.

A muscled security guard lumbered after him with considerably less grace. Renard watched, fascinated, as Lupin dodged each blow with ease. Hands tucked into his pockets, Lupin hummed and dipped low to avoid the security guard’s wild swing. He jerked his knee upwards into the guard’s stomach, spun on his ball of his foot, and slammed his shoe into the guard’s buttocks.

The guard went down with a yelp. Instantly he rolled, grabbed the gun from his holster, and fired.

The gun clicked uselessly.

The guard blinked as sad little _click-click-click_ s filled the hall. Lupin pulled his good hand from his pocket and allowed a fistful of bullets to clatter onto the floor.

“Guns can be so messy, y’know? Last thing anyone wants to do is destroy priceless artifacts.”

In one sharp, vicious motion Lupin’s foot collided with the security guard’s temple, and down he went.

Lupin rolled his shoulders back with a satisfied expression. Then he began to whistle. He slid his hands back into his pockets and slouched off towards the Hall of Gemstones and Minerals. At the entrance to the hall he paused.

Renard slipped further downwards as Lupin glanced over his shoulder. But the older thief just grinned, wide and wicked as the Cheshire Cat, clicked his heels together, and continued on.

Renard exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. _Go!_ A part of him screamed. _Lupin is getting ahead!_

Prudence demanded caution. Renard considered the unconscious security guard and the bullets that scattered over the floor. He yanked Domas’ handgun from its holster, unzipped his burglar’s suit, and tucked the gun into one of the hidden inner pockets. Only then did he straighten and unsheathe his rapier.

_Lupin is good_ , Renard thought to himself. _But he’s not as good as me_.

**…**

_Renard is good_ , Lupin thought to himself. _But he’s not as good as me_.

The heel-click would be enough to get his blood boiling, at the very least. Still, the younger thief had his uses: his knockout gas had taken out the bulk of the security guards, leaving Lupin free to clean up the remnants.

Jigen was currently leading Zenigata and a bunch of other goons on a merry chase around a different museum. Of Goemon there had been no word, but Lupin wasn’t worried: slicing an electric transformer to bits was hardly a stretch of the samurai’s capabilities.

Precious stones glittered in the gloom. Lupin moved among them at an almost-leisurely pace. The song in his throat rose up and out, transforming into words proper: “ _Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking…And when she passes, each one she passes goes ahhh_ …”

He danced his way around the meteorites and amethysts, ascended the three steps to the Star of India’s podium in a light bounce. “ _Oh, but he watches her so sadly_ ,” he hummed as he kneeled, inspected the blinking alarm system protecting the sapphire, “ _How can he tell her he loves her?”_

Good, steady security system, this. Trip the alarm and you’d have about two minutes before police swarmed the building.

_“Yes, he would give his heart gladly…But each day, when she walks to the sea, she looks straight ahead, not at he…”_

After a few seconds of fiddling, the alarm clicked off.

Lupin straightened, cracked his neck, and lifted the glass lid off the Star of India’s display. The gem fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. Renard had good taste as far as gems went: the soft glow gave the sapphire an almost ethereal quality. “Hello, lovely,” he murmured. “Daddy is gonna treat you good tonight.”

_Tink—tink—FWOOSH!_

Lupin leaped backwards at the sound. Instantly he flattened himself against the floor as the gas began to billow. Shifting the sapphire to his right hand, he plunged his left into his jacket pocket and withdrew a mouth filter.

Renard’s form took shape amid the fog. He stood over Lupin with rapier unsheathed. “Ah. I didn’t think it would be that easy.”

“It never is,” Lupin assured him, words muffled slightly by the filter.

Renard’s stance shifted as Lupin jumped back to his feet: knee out, elbow parallel to the knee, relaxed but ready as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his rapier. Lupin waited patiently for some other quip, but none came. Verbal, it seemed, was not among the kinds of sparring Renard had come here for. Lupin relaxed his stance, allowed his shoulders to droop.

He side-stepped the first thrust, dipped under the second, watching Renard’s footwork to signal his attacks. Renard feinted left, struck right. Lupin answered, right to left, but a fraction of a second too slow. Heat bloomed on Lupin’s cheek, followed by a stinging pain. Lupin dodged the next strike, swept a leg out, and caught Renard at his back knee. When the young thief staggered forward, Lupin rolled to the balls of his feet, pivoted around Renard, and lifted his other foot to kick.

Renard had seen the move. Renard knew the move. He planted one boot forward, twisted on his falling momentum, and slammed his elbow into Lupin’s mouth.

Lupin’s head jerked back with an audible _CRACK_! The ground slipped out from beneath him, and as the world tilted something round and smooth slipped from his grasp. On instinct he made to grab it, right hand shooting out—and his broken fingers collided with the floor.

The world vanished in a sear of bright-hot white-hot pain. Lupin arched his back and bit his lip, using everything he had to hold back a scream.

Renard stood over him with rapier poised. The young man was gasping behind his mask, shoulders rising and falling with effort to breathe. But the grip on his sword was unnervingly steady as he pressed its point into Lupin’s neck. “I will be taking the Star, thank you,” he said in a low voice.

Lupin had a retort somewhere on his tongue, but it never reached his stinging lips. Fire licked his right hand. He was shaking, and oddly sweaty, and now that he was laying still he was aware of a hundred little aches and pains throughout his body. Blood trickled from the cut on his cheek. And the small of his back twinged as he craned his neck away from the sword’s point.

“Hold it right there, punk.”

The two thieves froze in place. As one they turned, dumbfounded, to stare at Inspector Zenigata as he strode out of the darkness. Like Lupin before him, Zenigata loped forward with hands shoved into the pockets. The half-light cast a long shadow over his face, but beneath the battered old hat his eyes were hard as stone.

Lupin’s heart sank somewhere into his shoes. Shit. Shit! Shit shit _shit shit shit—_

Renard looked back to Lupin. He was silent, face unreadable behind the mask, but the grip on his sword had gone white-knuckled _. Zenigata won’t interrupt our contest_ , Lupin had said, cool and confident. _Occupied elsewhere_ , Lupin had promised.

_This is our game, Lupin._

No longer, evidently. But what was Zenigata doing here? He should have been blocks away, going around and around in circles at a different museum. What was he doing here?

How had he known?

Zenigata didn’t seem surprised to see Renard present (and he wouldn’t be, Lupin thought, not after all these years). In fact, he barely acknowledged the young lord at all. Instead his hard gaze landed on Lupin. One eyebrow arched. Lupin knew the look: it was a silent ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’.

Lupin beamed right through that look, as he had for so many years now. “Heya, Pops! I don’t remember inviting you to this party.”

“You didn’t,” Zenigata replied as he pulled his handcuffs from his waistline. “I’m here to break up the party.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like you.”

Zenigata snorted. Only then did he turn his attention to Renard. He nodded at the rapier. “Put that stick away, boy, before you add more charges to your sheet.”

Renard tore off his mask. For a moment it looked as though he were going to argue. Then he slammed his rapier back into its scabbard. The lordling did not meet Zenigata’s eyes: he stared forward, clenching and unclenching his fists, rolling his neck around his shoulders in an obvious attempt to stay calm. He was a boy, suddenly: a pouting and petulant boy who had failed to get what he wanted.

“You’re both under arrest for grand larceny,” Zenigata said, moving up the first step.

Color splotched Renard’s freckled face. He pressed his tongue to his cheek.

Lupin just sighed. Typical. Ah, well. There was always next time. Lupin flopped his head back, taking a moment to gather his breath while Zenigata looked the sulking Renard up and down.

The inspector sighed. “Y’know, if Lupin were smarter, he wouldn’t have roped you into this.”

“ _If Lupin were smarter_ ,” Renard echoed, with a terrible laugh. “If Lupin were _smarter_ , he would have done _this_ ages ago!”

In one swift, fluid motion, Renard drew his gun from his suit, cocked it, and fired.

Zenigata’s dark eyes widened. If he shouted, Lupin never heard it. The thief couldn’t hear anything save for the echo of the gunshot and the blood roaring in his ears. Lupin was rising to his feet, drawing his Walther from his hip, but there was nothing he could do to stop Zenigata from pitching backwards onto the floor.

Renard looked back to Lupin with a crooked grin. 

And something deep down inside Lupin snapped in two.

“ _YOU SON OF A BITCH!_ ”

Renard ducked the shot Lupin fired, scooped the Star from the floor, and fled like the fox before the wolf.

All of Lupin’s aches and pains burned away in a blaze of fury. He didn’t remember springing up, didn’t remember drawing his Walther with his left hand—left-hand, off-hand, he didn’t give a damn—but suddenly he was up and firing, glass displays shattering as his next bullet whizzed past Renard’s ear.

They raced through the museum in reverse: Renard sprinting for the staircase with Lupin hot on his heels. At the stairwell Renard grabbed the stair rail and flung himself upwards, clearing the first three steps with ease. A split-second later, the wall plaster behind him exploded into a hundred pieces.

Lupin skidded to a halt at the base of the stairs, shoulder slamming into the destroyed wall. The impact jarred his arm, jostled his aim as his fired again. Left hand—off-hand—everything about his best and favorite gun felt backwards, as though he had never held a gun in his life. The blood roaring in his ears rose to a fever pitch. He almost didn’t hear the shout of “LUPIN! KNOCK IT OFF!”

As it was, it took the heavy hand on his shoulder to drag him back into his surroundings. Lupin snapped his head to the side, only to find Zenigata glaring at him. “You are _not_ going to destroy this whole museum!”

“Pops!” And just like that he could breathe again. Lupin grinned, dizzy. “I knew you were okay!”

“Of course I’m okay! The little bastard can’t aim for shit. Just grazed me, is all.” Zenigata scowled. His grip on Lupin’s shoulder tightened as he looked up the stairs. “Don’t know if I can catch him, though.”

Lupin followed his gaze up the stairs. “Are you asking _me_ to apprehend a thief?”

“Just don’t let him get away,” Zenigata said. “I can do the rest.”

“I dunno, Pops, maybe you should try asking me nicely…” Lupin glanced back at Zenigata, and when he did his grin slipped. The color had drained from Zenigata’s face, and his grip on Lupin had gone white-knuckled. A deep purple stain had appeared on his left pant leg, and as Lupin watched the stain grew larger and larger, running from his thigh down to his ankle.

“Pops…”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Zenigata said. He gave Lupin a rough shove forward. “GO!”

For the first, last, and only time in his life, Lupin obeyed without question. He nodded and spun, flicking his wrist out until his spool of sticky wire found purchase high above. One sharp tug and he was rappelling upwards, flying past the sets of stairs. The fury in his chest dwindled to a core of blistering heat, surrounded now by a steely resolve: suddenly, seeing Zenigata clap Renard in handcuffs was his only goal in life.

There was something else in his chest too, something cold and sick like terror, but Lupin shoved it down. He had no time for fear, not when he swung his long legs up onto the second floor. Renard had scrambled up this way, he noted, not to the front door. The front door would have been easy, especially the security scrambled and the guards down. Unless he didn’t have a clean means of escape on foot…

Lupin turned to the spacious Hall of Birds—and then immediately backpedaled, ducking down as Renard fired at him from the other end of the hall. The bullet pinged off the entryway, sprinkling Lupin with plaster. Lupin took a breath before flinging around the corner, firing off two shots to cover his advance into the hall.

The first bullet shattered the glowing red exit sign over Renard’s head. The second broke the glass on the door just behind Renard. Wild, haphazard shots, but Renard had the sense to turn and run, smashing through the cracked glass. Lupin gnashed his teeth and followed.

The gunfight took them through the Peoples of Asia, across the Mammals of Asia, into the gift shop. Renard and Lupin weaved and ducked among novelty tee-shirts and toy T-Rexes, each round of gunfire destroying more of the museum. Neither could seize the upper hand; between Lupin’s off-hand and Renard’s aim, they were equally matched in inadequacy. Round and round they went, alternating between makeshift covers, until at last they found the stairs again.

Before long Lupin found himself on the landing of a stairwell with Renard just above, standing in a small corridor. Lupin snorted when Renard’s next bullet grazed his jacket’s arm.

“Your aim needs work, Oliver!” Lupin called. He tossed aside his empty clip and dug into his right hand into his pocket, grasping for something even as his broken fingers burned. “Was that shot in the Vatican a fluke?”

“Perhaps.” Even sweaty and gasping, Renard managed a damnable smirk. “Would it comfort you to know I was aiming for your head?”

Lupin’s expression hardened. Renard lifted his gun, but the instant he did Lupin slammed his fistful of flashpowder against the ground. Renard bellowed as light seared through the dark hallway. Instinctively his free hand came up, covering his eyes, and Star of India landed on the floor with a clatter.

Not a moment too soon—Renard recovered, turned, and sprinted for the window at the end of the hall. Two gunshots broke the glass, and Renard managed put his boot through the remaining shards before a quiet _click_ sounded.

He turned to see Lupin behind him: Star in his one hand, Walther in the other. For a moment there was silence, broken only by their respective gasping. Then Lupin leveled the gun’s sights at Renard’s chest.

“I win, Renard.”

Renard stared down the barrel of the gun. Then his eyes flickered, up and over Lupin’s shoulder. “The battle, maybe,” he said, breathing heavy between each word. He nodded at whatever was behind Lupin. “But it seems I’ve won the war, old boy.”

Every instinct screamed at him not to turn. The sound of a low, gurgling groan had him turning anyway.

At the top of the staircase Zenigata wavered, one hand grasping at his bloodied pant-leg. His glassy, faraway eyes locked on Lupin’s. And then, in one graceless, boneless motion, Zenigata pitched forward onto the floor.

“Pops—” Lupin breathed. “ _POPS_!”

All thoughts of Renard or gemstones or victory vanished. In a flash Lupin was back beside Zenigata, hauling him up against the wall as he groaned. Nothing else mattered now, nothing except how Zenigata’s eyes fluttered when Lupin smacked his cheek. “Hey! Hey! Stay with me!”

Zenigata stared at him. One hand fumbled for his handcuffs. “Lupin—” he mumbled, all conviction gone from his voice, “—you’re—you’re under arrest—”

“Hey—hey—I’m here. I’m here. Stay with me, okay?” Lupin found the bullet hole in Zenigata’s trouser, ripped it open to reveal a bloody thigh. Beneath him Zenigata shuddered. “Stay with me!”

Lupin looked back up to see Zenigata staring at him with odd expression. The inspector reached up to pressed a bloody hand to the thief’s bloody cheek. Lupin froze, stunned, as Zenigata rubbed his thumb over the open cut. The contact stung, but it was nothing compared to hearing Zenigata gasp: “Lupin…you’re…under…”

Consciousness left him in a rush. Lupin grabbed at Zenigata’s lapels as he slumped down. One finger flew to Zenigata’s neck, and Lupin did not dare breathe until he found Zenigata’s pulse. Alive—he was alive, the stupid stubborn cantankerous old fool!

“Pops—c’mon, Pops, this trick isn’t like you—Pops, c’mon, get up, the little bastard is getting away—Pops!—Pops, I—look, look! I got the Star! I shut down half of Manhattan, I broke in here, I took the gem! I’ve got it here—so you have to arrest me! You have to—look, I’m not even running! You can cuff me right here! You can have the Star, you can have it back, I won’t take it, I promise—Pops! ZENIGATA!”

Something hot pricked at his eyes. Tears? Not his—someone else’s, surely—but he fought them all the same. He fought the tears, and the bile, and the flames of fury flickering in his chest. He couldn’t afford anything but focus. He yanked off his tie and wrapped it around Zenigata’s thigh above the wound in a makeshift tourniquet.

Time vanished. He didn’t know how long he kneeled there, applying pressure to Zenigata’s leg and measuring each shallow breath he took, but when strong hands clamped around his arms he bellowed. Lupin struck out as someone dragged him up and away from Zenigata, spitting curses all the while:

“LET ME GO, YOU BASTARD—LET ME GO!”

“Lupin! _LUPIN_!”

Jigen’s voice cut clean through the static around his mind. Lupin ceased his thrashing in the gunman’s arms. When Jigen relinquished his grip he stumbled forward.

“Pops—Jigen, Pops is—” Lupin panted. “Pops is—”

“We can’t help him. Not us. Help’s comin’, Lupin. Hey, _hey_! Look at me! _Look at me_!” Jigen grabbed Lupin’s face with both hands and forced the thief to meet his eyes. “Help is comin’. But we have to get out of here. We have to go _now_.”

Sirens screamed. Alarms wailed. Red and blue lights flashed beyond the broken window. Lupin was aware of it all, suddenly, and all the pain he had suppressed came rushing back. Jigen caught him when he buckled, but Lupin didn’t care about his own sake. He would walk away, he could always walk away, but Zenigata remained pale and still and _alone_ against that wall.

Somewhere down below Yata yelled Zenigata’s name. The thundering of boots followed suit. Jigen was right, Lupin realized, right on both accounts. Help was coming, and they couldn’t stay here. He didn’t fight when Jigen grabbed his wrist and hauled him towards the window.

Lupin had no choice. But that didn’t mean it was an easy thing, to leave one of his best friends in the whole world behind, crumpled and bleeding on the museum floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🥳


	14. In Which Things Are Best Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One must imagine Sisyphus happy" -Albert Camus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially halfway through this fic! It's about time we added in a little of the LuZeni promised, huh?
> 
> As always, thanks to Belphegor for her beat work and her amazing turnaround time on chapters.

**Chapter Thirteen, In Which Things Are Best Left Unsaid**

Consciousness came to him in the form of crisply impersonal bedsheets.

 _Hospital_ , Zenigata’s mind helpfully informed the rest of him. The rest of him just responded with a low groan.

Now that he knew it, though, there was no escaping the familiar sensations: the hard bed beneath him, the steady _beep-beep_ of a heart monitor, low murmurs of third-shift nurses. Cool, conditioned air made him shiver. Hospitals. No matter where he went in the world, hospitals were all the same. And he hated every single one of them.

An astute man might have pointed out how depressing it was, to be an international expert on hospital bedrooms. Zenigata was not in the mood to be astute.

He remained with eyes closed, taking stock of himself. Breathing, fine. Pulse a little fast, but that was to be expected. His head swam with whatever cocktail of drugs they had pumped into his system. All four limbs present and accounted for. His fingers and toes wiggled without incident. He made to shift—and a thrill of pain went up his left leg.

Ah. There it was.

Zenigata lay still as the pain ebbed to a dull throbbing. The muscles in his leg jumped and twitched; the rest of him went cold as blood rushed to his leg. Zenigata shivered. The air was too cool to start with, and the breeze wasn’t helping.

Breeze?

Zenigata snapped his eyes open to see a dark, solitary hospital room. His eyes flittered over the bed and the privacy curtain, the bedrail and the monitor and the rattling AC. Typical impersonal hospital fare, typical clinical sterile room. The only exception to the typicalness was the bouquet of bright flowers on his bedside table.

Springtime flowers, lively bursts of pink and yellow and white. The sight of them made Zenigata frown. He had no need of flowers or well-wishes. All his ICPO associates knew that. And Yata knew better than to spend all his time sulking at his bedside when his time and talent could be useful elsewhere. No one brought him flowers.

No one, of course, save the thief currently trying to sneak back out the window.

“Hospital windows aren’t supposed to open.”

Lupin froze at Zenigata’s hoarse voice. He lowered his foot away from the windowsill and turned back to the inspector. Zenigata was staring right at him, seemingly unsurprised by his presence. In all honesty, he looked slightly _annoyed_. Lupin hooked his thumbs through the loops in his belt. “Hospital windows make exceptions for me.”

Zenigata arched an eyebrow. “Fleeing already? After you got me shot?”

Lupin had no ready answer for that. And when Zenigata nodded to the plastic visitor’s chair, Lupin crossed back to him and sank down. There were no quips, no teasing, no flinging himself onto the mattress to declare his next target. He sat with shoulders hunched, barely making eye contact with the inspector.

Zenigata nodded towards the bouquet. “You steal those from some gift shop downstairs?”

“I didn’t steal them.”

A beat of silence followed.

“Ah,” said Zenigata. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “It was that bad, huh?”

Lupin hitched his shoulders higher as if that would somehow make him smaller, and therefore safe from Zenigata’s unnervingly mild tone. “I’m sorry.”

Without taking his eyes off the ceiling, Zenigata reached over and cuffed Lupin across the ear.

“OW!”

“Don’t you _ever_ apologize to me again!”

The smack seemed to knock some Lupin back into…well, Lupin. He swatted Zenigata’s hand away with a scowl. “Real mature, Pops!”

“Don’t you try to lecture me about mature, Mister Leaves Through the Window! Just use the door like any other visitor!”

“You haven’t _had_ any visitors,” Lupin snapped, in an almost accusatory tone. “It’s been three days, and you haven’t had _anyone_ come to see you!”

Zenigata opened his mouth to retort. And then closed it again when he realized he had no retort ready—at least, none that weren’t slightly pathetic. He heaved his shoulders in an accepting sort of sigh, and changed the subject: “What happened?”

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, that’s nothing new.”

“I _said_ I’m sorry!”

“Stop saying that!”

“I’m trying to be sincere, damn it!”

“And watching you try to be sincere is like watching a fish climb a tree. It’s uncomfortable, impossible, and it’s making me sad just watching you. Knock it off before I toss you into a lake.”

“In your condition? I’d like to see you try, old man—” The familiar insult got stuck in his throat. Lupin choked, grimaced, and then fell silent. His gaze went to Zenigata’s bandaged, elevated leg, and once more his shoulders hitched.

Zenigata gave him a long, searching look. “Spit it out.”

Lupin stuck his tongue out to show off an empty mouth, with an ‘ahh’ for extra emphasis.

“Very funny,” Zenigata said. Flat as his tone was, though, there was no hiding the small sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “Now. Let’s try again: what happened?”

“Renard, the vicious little bastard, he shot you. And then _you_ decided to go up three flights of stairs with a bullet in your leg instead of letting me handle it!” Lupin flicked his wrist at Zenigata’s bandaged leg, a dismissive gesture meant to push the blame somewhere else.

“Yes. I heard how well you were _handling_ it,” Zenigata replied. It had been a special kind of hell, standing at the base of the staircase, unable to do anything but listen to the crack of gunshots overhead. He couldn’t just stand there and wait for Lupin to come back to him. Not then, not now, not ever. “What happened to that gem you two were squabbling over?”

“I left it behind.”

The silence that followed was longer and heavier than the one following the bouquet revelation. Zenigata breathed out through his nose. Then he pinched himself, just to be sure. When pain confirmed that yes, he was awake and no, he hadn’t slipped into some alternate reality, the inspector cleared his throat.

“Hm. I guess I don’t have to arrest you for that one.”

“’ppreciate it,” Lupin mumbled as he folded one long leg over the other.

“And my leg?”

Typical Zenigata, Lupin thought, always putting the case before his own well-being. His chest filled with such fondness it ached. “You’ve been here three days. The bullet caught you in the thigh, but it missed major arteries. You’re going to be laid up a while, but you’ll make a full recovery.”

“Good, good.” Zenigata closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Just make sure your next few heists are low-stakes, huh? I have a hard time chasing you on two legs, never mind one. Something nice and simple like a jewelry store.”

“Jewelry stores may be all I’m good for at this rate,” Lupin muttered. He turned to stare at the adjacent wall, chin in hand.

Zenigata reopened one eye. “You gonna tell me what’s bothering you or are you just gonna keep making sad eyes at the wall?”

For a long moment Lupin did not speak. He fidgeted, fiddling with the end of his tie and rubbing at the back of his head. There must have been something of enormous interest on the wall, because he did not tear his eyes from it to look at Zenigata. Zenigata didn’t move or speak. He simply waited, waited until Lupin sighed and began to talk.

He didn’t tell the inspector everything (there were, of course, some things a thief kept to himself and his gang), but Lupin told him enough: the contest with Renard, the failed heist at the Vatican, Renard’s adamant belief that he and Zenigata were in cahoots, everything that had happened in the museum up until the moment Zenigata appeared on the scene.

“I lost, Pops. But I didn’t lose because Renard was better or smarter than me—I could handle that, maybe. Fujiko’s gotten ahead of me plenty of times. But Renard isn’t faster than me, Pops. I’m just… _slower_.”

Lupin was careful to enunciate the word. It was an important distinction, _the_ most important distinction. It was no inherent quality of Renard that allowed him to succeed. It was Lupin himself, it was Lupin who was slipping. Admitting it out loud was terrifying. Somehow, though, the fact that he was admitting it to his nemesis wasn’t nearly as bad.

Perhaps that was because Zenigata nodded to show he understood the distinction Lupin made. He remained quiet, hands folded on top of the thin hospital blanket. Zenigata hadn’t given him a scrap of pity or sympathy, and for that Lupin was absurdly grateful. The moment Zenigata pitied him was the moment he knew it was all over.

Lupin took a moment to gather his thoughts before holding up his right hand. In the pale hospital light, his splinted fingers looked garish. “He shouldn’t have been able to do this. He shouldn’t have been able to do that.” He nodded to Zenigata’s prone leg. “I should have been able to stop him. But I wasn’t. I was too slow. I don’t like feeling this way, Pops. I don’t like feeling—”

“Like me?”

Oh.

“Oh,” Lupin said.

“Oh,” Zenigata echoed. He rested his head back against his pillow.

He looked to the ceiling once more, giving Lupin time and space to process that one. Lupin stared down at his broken fingers, brow furrowed, eyes darting back and forth in sudden thought. This is what it felt like to be Zenigata? This is what it felt like to be too slow to catch someone? “This sucks!”

“Yeah,” Zenigata chuckled. “It does.”

Lupin looked to Zenigata with undisguised horror. “You feel this way _all the time_ , Pops?”

“What’s the alternative? Giving up?” He shrugged the shrug of Sisyphus, the shrug of a man who had accepted his absurd lot in life. “I just have to hope that someday I’ll be the faster.”

“I can’t live my life on hope!”

“Hmph? When you threw yourself off the roof in Portofino, you weren’t hoping some solution would magically appear in front of you?” Zenigata grinned when Lupin gave him a sour look. “You can’t sit there and tell me you know what you’re doing every moment of every day. I know you too well to believe that.”

“Fine. I can’t _win this competition_ on hope.”

“Competition, tch. You’ve never had competition, Lupin,” Zenigata said. “Why are you giving this Renard the time of day?”

Once more Lupin hesitated. _That_ question was the hardest of all to answer, even if he knew the answer just fine. He looked Zenigata over, eyes lingering on his leg. If there was one person he owed the truth to, it was Zenigata. If there was one person he could tell the truth to, it was Zenigata. Without a word Lupin reached up and combed his fingers through his hair reveal the strands of silver.

Zenigata considered him thoughtfully. To Lupin’s immense relief, he did not roll his eyes or scoff at Lupin’s vanity. But he did smile, just a little bit. “Starting to feel it, huh?”

“What?”

“Your age.”

The precise number floated in front of his eyes. Lupin shoved it away. To Zenigata’s question he gave a tiny, tentative nod. “My back hurts.”

“Yeah, the back is usually the first thing to go. Lemme guess—you got a moment to breathe in that museum, and you realized just how much everything hurt?”

Lupin blinked. “How did you know?”

Zenigata looked Lupin over. Then he pushed himself upwards and shoved the blanket away. Lupin watched, baffled, as Zenigata wiggled out of his hospital gown. The inspector was a muscular, well-built man, and even the most tailored of suits never quite hid the squareness of his frame. A carpet of thick hair coated his chest. Dark chest hair, Lupin noted with sudden interest, speckled with silver. He leaned forward to get a better look, and as he did he noticed the thin, long-healed scar cutting through that dark chest hair.

Lupin pointed to it. “What’s that from?”

“Cagliostro,” Zenigata answered. He pressed a finger to the thin scar. “Do you remember crashing into the tree in that ridiculous autogyro?”

“The one I made you pilot? Vaguely. You got that from this?”

“You were a little unconscious at the time,” Zenigata said. He moved his finger to the middle of his chest and tapped a small starburst star. “You were awake for this one, though.”

“Tarantula,” Lupin said with no small amount of hate.

The next was a long-healed burn on his shoulder from a helicopter crash; after that, another starburst scar from a mercenary’s stray shot. Inch by inch, scar by scar, Zenigata walked Lupin back through the years. The inexorable march of time was written all over the inspector’s skin. 

Lupin listened with astonishment and mounting horror. Scars were part of the job, he knew that well as anyone else. They all had scars. But when he fell, Jigen caught him. When he couldn’t walk, Goemon was there to drag him along. And he was there for them. Zenigata had been chasing them for all these years. Who bound his wounds? Who hauled him out of the rubble when the plan came crashing down?

 _You do_ , some part of Lupin assured him. _You pull him out_.

 _After pushing him in!_ another part of him countered. Lupin’s stomach sank. How could he have done this? Knowing what he knew now, being in the same position Zenigata has been in—how could he have done this? And, more bafflingly, why didn’t Zenigata stop?

Without thinking Lupin leaned forward and pressed his palm against the Cagliostro scar.

Zenigata started. “What are you—”

“I did this?” Lupin asked. Zenigata’s skin was slightly feverish beneath his hand.

“Not on purpose,” Zenigata said. “Plenty of times you or Jigen had me dead to rights and you didn’t take the shot.” He frowned when Lupin didn’t answer.

Zenigata slipped his hand over Lupin’s. For an instant, Lupin was seized by the ludicrous desire to link their fingers together. He needed to feel the rise and fall of Zenigata’s chest beneath his hand. He needed to know Zenigata was okay.

Zenigata sighed and gently pushed Lupin’s hand away. “I know you’ve had your fair share of wear and tear. And you can’t tell me otherwise. It’s not a pleasant thing, when you finally start to feel it. But it’s not the end of the world. If a second-place finisher like me can keep going, you…you’ll be just fine. You don’t have a damn thing you need to prove to anyone.”

Lupin pulled his hand back to his side. Zenigata was trying to tell him something, something important, but his heart curled away from the assuring words. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to accept it. Arguing would earn him a second slap, though. So instead Lupin shook his head. “Maybe not. But Renard went and made it personal.”

Zenigata scowled as Lupin got to his feet. “Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

“Why not?” Lupin grinned. He hooked his right thumb into a pocket. “Me doing something stupid is the only thing that’s gonna get you out of this bed faster.”

His grin widened when Zenigata scoffed. He leaned over and slipped his left hand into Zenigata’s. Zenigata stiffened, staring down at their conjoined hands in something like amazement when Lupin squeezed. A deep, red blush crept its way up Zenigata’s neck. But he did not argue when Lupin pulled away and moved to the window.

“Lupin?”

Lupin turned back at the soft call. “Hm?”

Zenigata was watching him closely. For a moment it seemed Zenigata was on the verge of saying something important. Then he shook his head. “Close the window on your way out.”

Lupin’s smile softened. “Get some rest, Pops.”

**…**

The gray light of dawn peeked over the eastern skies. Overhead, though, thick gray clouds drizzled rain down on New York City. Lupin popped his collar up against the sudden chill. The hotel was only a few blocks away, but Lupin walked without haste. He needed the time to think.

As such, he was soaked through and shivering by the time he stepped into the upscale hotel room they’d been renting for the past three days.

Jigen and Goemon were waiting for him. The samurai sat on the white couch with legs folded beneath him. The sharp smell of bourbon, meanwhile, told Lupin Jigen had been helping himself to the room’s mini-bar. Both men stilled as Lupin closed the door behind him.

“He’s awake. He’s gonna be okay.”

Jigen and Goemon exhaled simultaneously, snapping the almost-palpable tension in the room. Goemon’s whole stance slackened in rare, obvious relief. In another moment, Lupin might have noted the strange guilt flash across the samurai’s face. As it was, Lupin just turned to the sympathetic Jigen.

Jigen poured him a generous helping of bourbon into a crystal-cut glass. “Cheers to the old man, then. Here, take the chill off your bones.”

Lupin took the bourbon with a murmur of thanks. Rather than sitting, however, he began to pace the length of the posh hotel living room. Jigen watched him go round and round the couch with a sense of déjà vu; after all, he had watched Lupin fret and pace around this pristine white couch for the past three days. Jigen shared a look of mutual agreement with Goemon. Jigen sighed as he poured himself another glass. “You’re still worried about him, though.”

Lupin moved to the window. Fat, heavy raindrops splattered against the glass pane. “What if he gets hurt again?”

“Then he spends a few days in the hospital, you spend a few days feeling miserable, and the whole thing starts all over again.”

“What if—what if, next time, he doesn’t walk away?” Lupin pivoted back to find his friends staring at him. “He got lucky this time. Really lucky. And a guy like Zenigata can’t live his life on hope and luck.”

“Lupin, c’mon, he’s not gonna give up as long as you’re going! It’s this—this _thing_ you two have.” Jigen flicked a sharp wrist to emphasis whatever _this_ was. “You don’t feel right if Pops isn’t there to chase you, and Pops would never let anyone else go after you. He’s not gonna turn in his badge and move to Maui, not while you’re still at large.”

Goemon nodded in agreement. “Zenigata is a man who truly believes in the virtue of justice. He would see a rebuke of his abilities as a rebuke of justice itself. He would never allow it.”

“No, no, you two aren’t listening to me—” Lupin ran his bandaged hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. “If I’m—if I’m finally starting to _feel my age_ —what does that mean for Pops? I’m not going to send him into an early grave! I won’t! Look—I know I’m a selfish prick, I know it! And I _like_ being selfish! But if the next bullet catches Pops in the head—”

He stopped short before the image could coalesce in his mind. Lupin took a deep breath before collapsing onto the couch beside Goemon. Jigen moved to sit down across from him. For a moment Lupin was silent. He stared down at his drink with a blank expression. Then, slowly, he started again:

“He doesn’t have to chase me personally. He’s got Yata. He’s got a whole department he can call resources from—he could buy himself a drone, for fuck’s sake! He doesn’t have to keep putting himself in danger like this. Plenty of ways to chase me that don’t involve putting himself in harm’s way. So why does he?”

Lupin rubbed at his temple in a vain attempt to suss it out. The question was very obviously rhetorical, but Goemon and Jigen shared another look regardless. Jigen spread one hand out in a clear ‘the floor is yours’ gesture. Goemon nodded and waited for Lupin take a full swig from his glass. Only then did he clear his throat.

“Have you considered the fact that Inspector Zenigata is in love with you?”

The sudden spray of bourbon hit Jigen full in the face.

**…**

“While the name of the injured officer has yet to be released to the public, authorities have announced he is expected to make a full recovery—”

Renard gnashed his teeth over his morning cappuccino. He sat back against the plush, comfortable couch of his rented penthouse. He’d been sitting in front of the huge flatscreen television since last night, listening for any scrap of news.

He heard, rather than saw, Domas stepping up behind him. The mercenary stabbed at his morning cereal with a scowl. “Good job, idiot.”

“It wasn’t _my_ fault!” Renard tossed the remote aside and stood.

“Wasn’t it?”

“I just—I got so _angry_ , Domas—I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did. I know what happens when you get angry, Ol. You fucked around, and now you’re going to pay the price. Zenigata knows your _face_ , Oliver,” Domas said. He nodded to the screen and took a healthy bite of cereal. “Hope you enjoy prison.”

Renard frowned before coming around the couch. He shoved past Domas and into the kitchen. “I don’t intend on going to prison.”

Domas watched him set the cappuccino cup down on the counter with excess force. “What are you going to do about it?”

Renard glanced back at him. And then his eyes flicked to the handgun, holstered once more at Domas’ waist. Domas followed his gaze down and up again. “Can you do it?” he asked in a low voice. “It’s one thing to be pissed off, Ol. You’re gonna pull the trigger on a sleeping man in a hospital bed? You cold enough to do that?”

Renard lifted his chin in a gesture of defiance. “Yes.”

“No,” Domas said, almost instantly. “No, you’re not. You couldn’t shoot him in the face the first time. Besides, going in there yourself to finish the job? That’s crossing the line from _good job, idiot_ to _you deserve to go to prison_.”

Renard flushed red, but did not argue. He watched as Domas yanked his phone from his pocket. “What are you doing?”

“If you want something done right,” Domas replied as he began to type, “sometimes you have to get someone else to do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact! “Have you considered the fact that Inspector Zenigata is in love with you?” is the very first line I came up with, aaaaall the way back in the spring. And then I had to write a whole fanfic around it.
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Chaos


End file.
